


In Places Deep, Where Dark Things Sleep

by AislingSiobhan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Bad Elvish Translations, Crossover, Hobbit Spoilers, Language, M/M, Master of Death!Harry, Slash, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AislingSiobhan/pseuds/AislingSiobhan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years later, and Harry wakes up in deep in the Mirkwood as the Elves begin their starlight festival. But because it's Harry, nothing about it is going to be easy, especially since the King doesn't seem to want to send him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Wizard went in to the deep, dark wood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MidnightEmber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightEmber/gifts).



This is for SchwarzShifter at FFNet for all of the wonderful reviews they left me (even though they aren’t in the Hobbit fandom, I don’t think?) 

It is also for Midnightember, Gedebe, Siennasnow, and Inseradea on Tumblr for encouraging the idea. Yeah, thanks, and now I’ve split it into chapters fml, lol. 

 

**“In Places Deep, Where Dark Things Sleep”**

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter, et all are property of JK Rowling, and Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros and all those other nifty people that make it so we can read and watch the Potterverse whenever we feel like it. I make no money from this, just so you know. Lord of the Rings is also not mine; I make no money from the books or the movies.  
 **Summary:** [Thranduil/HP] Ten years later, and Harry wakes up in deep in the Mirkwood as the Elves begin their starlight festival.  
 **Warnings:** Slash. Thranduil/HP. AU. Post-Hogwarts. Cross over. Master of Death!Harry. Language. The Hobbit spoilers. Soulmates. Terrible attempts at translating Elvish.  
 **Rating:** PG-15 (at least).  
 **A/N:** Title is taken from Thorin’s song. 

_XXX_

**Words:** 4,992  
 **Chapter 1**  
Harry shouldn’t have been half as surprised as he was when he woke up in the middle of a forest. He was still dressed, which was good, and he had both shoes on and his wand in his pocket, which was even better. The last thing he remembered was being hunched over his desk in work, object of unknown origin in hand, while fighting with Ron (again) about his new job as an Unspeakable: ten years as an Auror later and never aging was dangerous and there were only so many changes a glamour could make. It had been Hermione’s idea to join the Unspeakables. They were known for protecting their own, and it was better to be one of them than to be experimented on by one of them. 

Ron hadn’t liked it, and honestly neither had Ginny. Harry hadn’t been allowed to come home and talk about his day anymore, not like they had used to talk, because the first rule he had been taught by his new boss was that Unspeakable things were unspeakable. The Weasleys blamed Harry’s new job for the break up, but honestly, he and Ginny had been sleeping in separate rooms for years but neither of them had wanted to be the one to truly break it off.

Harry quickly put the thought out of his mind, wanting to focus instead on finding his way home. Slowly pulling himself to his feet and running his hands over his trousers to brush off dirt and leaves, Harry glanced around the forest. His wand found its way to his hand, fingers instinctively reaching for the familiar wooden handed. He held it down by his side though, cautious as he walked forward. There were voices in the distance, light and airy and they seemed to be singing but Harry couldn’t make out any of the words. But he walked towards them, because voices meant people and people meant finding out where he was so that he could get home faster. Harry didn’t get as far as he would have liked before noises from behind him made him pause. It was a scuttling sound, ominous as it was loud, an understated danger: there was no pounding of running feet, no war cries. Nothing, but the crunch of leaves on the ground as they moved and the whish of the trees as the branches bent beneath their weight. 

An Acromantula burst from the bushes behind Harry, who had just turned around to walk again. It knocked the Wizard onto his back, though his wand arm came up with the tip pointing at the creature. 

It spoke, in a language almost like Parseltongue so that Harry could make out the gist of it rather than translate the words. It said, “Such a yummy feast!” Then its mouth opened, fangs bared, fore legs rising to catch hold of its prey. The web was too slow to tangle him, and Harry’s spell killed the creature in a flash of green light. 

Another took its place, and another and another until Harry was surrounded. They watched him from the trees, and from the bushes, and some approached him cautiously, wary after the death of their brethren but hungry enough not to run away completely. Harry fought, as he had always fought, with no hesitance, throwing himself into the thick of it and flinging spells wildly left and right, but unlike in school now his moves were trained, fluent, and he twisted like a dancer, dodging and ducking and killing like it had been choreographed. 

The noise had drawn the attention of the singing people, because after a few minutes, and several dead spiders and a couple of close calls on Harry’s part, arrows began flying. They landed between the eyes or through the open mouths of Acromantulas attempting to take a bite out of Harry’s face, killing the creatures in one shot. Spiders dropped like flies, as the saying sort of went, and tall, beautiful people emerged into the clearing. It was only when Harry noticed how the trees parted around them that he realised he had been walking along a clear path, with cobbled stones sunk into the earth to pave the way. Until he looked down and realised he was ankle deep in blood and mud, with no path to speak of, and hadn’t been since the time the spiders caught up with him. He felt suddenly like Alice in Wonderland, lost in a forest as the road disappeared around her, or Red Riding Hood that travelled off the path and almost got eaten by wolves. 

“Hello,” he greeted rather ineloquently once all the spiders were dead. Harry wasn’t sure what else he could say, or do really, because now the people (Elves! They were Elves, his mind hissed as he finally noticed the delicately pointed ears they all sported) were aiming their weapons at him. “Any idea where I am? Or how to get back to London?”

“The city of men is that way,” One Elf answered, pointing back in the opposite direction. Harry glanced over his shoulder, frowning, because _the_ city, as in only one? 

The Elf was a woman; beautiful and tall with waist length auburn hair (like his mother’s). She carried three different swords on her person that Harry could see along with the bow and its notched arrow that almost touched the tip of his nose when Harry turned back around. 

Another Elf, tall again and as blond as Malfoy, his hair as long as Lucius’ had been, stepped forward. His bow was by his side, but he tilted his head slowly as he took Harry in, head to toe and looked away with a scoff of disappointment. Harry was almost offended by the gesture, but well, he didn’t think the elf looked like ‘the shit’ either, so to each their own. 

“What are you doing in my woods?” The blond asked. 

“Your woods?” He asked in reply, because honestly who did this guy think he was, King of England or something? 

“Your woods?” A voice repeated from behind Harry, sounding more amused than Harry thought anyone had a right to be (especially considering that he himself was rather annoyed at the blond’s arrogance). Harry spun around, eyes narrowed because he sort of thought the guy might be laughing at him as well as the other elf and that was just rude. But anything he might have said escaped him in one long breath as he caught sight of the new speaker. The man looked just like the male elf expect he wore a robes that were so elaborate that even ex-Minister Fudge wouldn’t have dared try it, and there was a band across his head, like a stag’s antlers, interwoven with brown ivy and red roses. It was almost a crown, Harry thought, awe-struck at the sight of the stranger. 

“What are you doing in _my_ woods?” The second man questioned, changing one of the words, and his head tilted to one side like his son’s. There was less derision in his gaze though, instead it was something curious and bold and his mouth was curved up at the edges as his eyes travelled Harry’s frame. He looked down first, gaze travelling back up slowly, devouring every inch of Harry’s body while the Wizard squirmed uncomfortably. When their eyes met the younger man felt a furious heat pool in the bottom of his belly, a burning arousal he hadn’t felt since the start of his and Ginny’s relationship. 

Harry didn’t respond to the question; too busy shifting from one foot to the other awkwardly. He blinked twice, eyebrows furrowing as he thought it through. In the end, he decided to treat the man as he would treat a visiting Minister for Magic, and simply ignore everything else for the moment. He gave a small bow, bending at the waist and lowering his eyes for five seconds exactly before he straightened up again. “Sincerest apologies, Sir, but I’m not entirely sure how I came to be here. I woke in a clearing further back that way and the last thing I remember is fighting with my friend surrounded by dangerous, magical objects. Obviously something went wrong and here I am, so if you could tell me where here is so I could get back home that would be appreciated, Sir.” 

“Sir?” The blond elf questioned, half a smile on his mouth. 

“I’m not sure what else to call you, Sir.” Harry gave another small nod of his head in deference again, because this guy was starting to remind him of the French Minister, who was easily offended and terribly hard to please, and whose memory for holding grudges continued on for years. 

“I am Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Woodland Realm. Who are you?” 

The way he had said it made Harry think of the caterpillar in Wonderland, and he smiled as he imagined the blond King blowing smoke rings from a shisha pipe. 

“I’m Harry Potter.” He waited, but there was no sudden influx of chatter, no one tried to hug him and no one asked for an autograph. He was too confused to be grateful for the fact that no one recognized him, and rather worried about that fact too, so he added, “Where is the Woodland Realm?”

“What once was the Greenwood is now the Mirkwood in which you are trespassing,” the first she-elf answered him sternly. 

“I’m from London, in England. You know England, right?” Harry’s hands were twisting in front of his stomach anxiously, but his wand had gone back into his pocket when Thranduil had first appeared. 

“I do not,” the King admitted, with his head still tilted curiously to one side. “But if magic brought you here magic may be able to bring you home. It is sad that there are no Istari in these parts,” Thranduil sighed with a shake of his head, looking at Harry in what should have been pity but seemed more of a pleased expression to Harry than anything. “I am afraid you will have to accept my hospitality for now, and we shall see what the Valar wills for you.” 

“Istari?” Harry asked, voice sounding shrill. 

“A magic user. Are you not Istari, Hahrie?” 

“I’m a Wizard!” Harry told him, arms folded indigently across his chest now, “and it’s Har _ry_.” Thranduil pronounced it as ‘Harr-e’, as one would say ‘hard’ instead of ‘hah-ry’. “Sorry,” he added meekly, lowering his eyes as the elves simultaneously raised their weapons again. 

“Come,” the King beckoned, ignoring the apology and the offense both. “It is the festival of starlight tomorrow. We have begun our celebrations early, and it would please me for you to join us.” He held out his arm, the way Viktor Krum had done when he met Hermione for the Yule Ball and Harry knew what the elf wanted but his body didn’t respond. He stared stupidly for a moment, looking like an absolute fool, even though he had done this before for Ginny, holding her arm as he walked Hermione’s bridesmaid out of the church after the wedding. But it had been his arm Ginny had held, not the other way around. Thranduil obviously had patience, because it was Legolas, the son, who introduced himself quickly before taking hold of Harry’s arm and tugging him towards his father. 

Fingers curled into the crook of Thranduil’s arm automatically, taking comfort in the touch of another person, especially one who was being kind in this strange new place. Harry wanted to go find a corner and cry, because he was lost in a new universe apparently and no one seemed all that eager to get rid of him (which was sort of good because at least they weren’t leaving him alone to wander the forest until he starved), but he found himself leaning against the King’s side, trusting and quiet as the elf led the way back to the party. 

Harry found himself at Thranduil’s side all night, never further away than arm’s reach. Other elves spoke to him, but they always had to come forward to the base of the small throne that had been carried out for their King, where he sat watching the revelry, with Harry by his side. Harry was never allowed to wander far enough away to approach them. But that was ok too, Harry supposed, because it meant he wouldn’t get lost, or accidentally get left behind by the King at the end of the party, because surely he had other things to worry about other than Harry and his whereabouts? So keeping close was good, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the butterflies in Harry’s stomach when he realised that the King was staring at him, and had been since their eyes had first met in the clearing full of dead spiders. 

“Would you like to dance?” Tauriel’s eyebrow jumped in surprise at the sound of Legolas’ voice. The Prince and his father were well known for not truly enjoying their parties. Ever since the Queen’s death, Thranduil had been happy to remain seated at each and every event, cut off from the revelry of the others, and Legolas usually remained close to his side. That the Prince was asking a stranger to their lands to dance was odd, but what was odder was the furious glare Thranduil directed towards his son as Harry hesitantly reached out to accept the offered hand. 

“I don’t know any of those dances.” 

The captain of the guards laughed softly, when after one dance where Harry was awkwardly led around in a circle, Thranduil stood up slowly. He pushed himself out of his chair like it was a feat worthy of ballads, hands tiredly hanging at his sides afterwards; but maybe that was the nerves, Tauriel thought still laughing. 

“Perhaps you should let someone who knows how to dance show Hahrie how it is done?” The King held out his hand, but Harry only glanced at it warily, a scowl across his mouth. “Ah,” Thranduil said, “Harree, is it?” 

“Better,” the Wizard allowed, but he did reach out for the hand. He smiled apologetically at Legolas, before turning into Thranduil’s embrace, allowing the King to lead him in a fairly easy motion. They didn’t talk while they danced, but they maintained eye contact, no matter how much Harry wanted to lower his gaze shyly, he couldn’t seem to be able to look away. Thranduil had him enthralled, and not even the sounds of other Elves gossiping wiped the smile off of his face. 

Across the clearing, Legolas stood shoulder to shoulder to Tauriel. “Did you know when you asked?” She questioned him softly, well aware of their King’s fine hearing. 

“Of course I knew,” Legolas answered with a wide grin, “but I also knew that Atar would need some encouragement. It’s been rather some time since he courted anyone.”1

“Not since your mother,” Tauriel agreed, and for a moment they were sad and silent, and then Harry tripped over his own feet. Laughter echoed throughout the clearing, but Thranduil used it as an excuse to hold the Wizard closer, motioning for the music to change into something slower and softer, and Legolas watched them sway together, surrounded by other couples. 

He glanced at Tauriel after meeting another of his father’s glares. “He didn’t court Mother,” the Elf admitted, with a shrug. “I asked her once, about _fea-meldor_ ,2 though I of course meant her and Atar, but she told me stories of true love and happily ever after and how you’d know the first time you met their eyes that they were made for you to love them. Stories we all heard growing up, and stories that we tell ourselves every night because we’ve waited so long and are losing faith that it might happen, no?” Tauriel smiled softly in agreement. They both knew others could be happily married to someone who was not their soulmate, the King and Queen had been after all, and Legolas was in love with Tauriel (despite his father’s disapproval), but it was hard to watch Thranduil and Harry and not feel jealous or bitter. “Grandfather picked my Mother, and Ada wed her and they were happy and they loved each other, but neither of them did any courting.”

“This should be amusing to watch.” 

Legolas met his friend’s gaze, noticed the way her eyes had brightened with amusement and mischief, and found himself silently agreeing. 

_XXX_

Harry hadn't been sure of what to expect when Thranduil called an end to the festivities. They would be picking up again the following afternoon and continuing on until the early hours of the morning (like this night's had done) but in the meantime there was sleeping, eating and general drudgery to be getting on with. He followed them, two steps behind Thranduil and one ahead of Legolas, even though he had tried to slip to the back of the crowd because the others’ staring was freaking him out a little. The Elven-king kept hold of his hand; tugging Harry along like a wayward child and the Wizard let him because, well, it didn't seem polite to wrench his hand away, did it? Especially not when it felt so nice, held securely with fingers laced between the Elf's own. 

He had expected to be shown a mattress or some spare blankets to curl up under, because he was sort of imposing on them without notice, or since this was a King in a real life kingdom they were talking about at the very least a sparsely kept room. What Harry received instead was the adjoining chambers to the King's bedroom. They shared a living room, a small kitchen that looked as if it had never been used (no surprise there when there were servants rushing around) and what was supposed to be an office, but looked more like a small library. Thranduil insisted it had nothing on the actual library of Mirkwood, which housed far more scrolls and papers-- but it probably didn't have anything about magic or traveling between worlds so the King thought it best to keep Harry away from it for now. There was a notable lack of a bathroom, but since they were living underneath a forest in a palace that appeared to have been grown out of the trees and roots of the forest, well, it was obvious that plumbing wasn't a main concern. They had running water though, and hot springs, and an awesome waterfall that led out from the wine cellars to the river that ran through the wood. 

Harry could barely keep his eyes in his head, and almost gave himself whiplash trying to take in everything at once, twisting and turning to catch all of the sights that passed him by. The King watched him over his shoulder occasionally, looking rather amused, but smug at the same time; taking pleasure in Harry taking pleasure in his home. Legolas talked quietly with Tauriel, who had moved towards the head of the procession as they approached the royal living quarters and the majority of the other Elves disappeared in other directions. The guards remained close, unassuming in their festive clothing, unlike the four who waited at the base of Thranduil's throne, decked head to toe in heavy armour, their faces obscured by metal masks. 

"That makes an impression," Harry muttered after giving a low whistle. Thranduil had given him the quickest tour ever of his new room and then offered to show him the way to the bathing house. It was carved into the earth, and filled with hot springs, but the King and his son had their own pool, separated from the others by a wall made entirely out of ivy. They had to walk passed the throne room to get there, and Harry glanced up and up at all of the stairs that led to the throne and the silently watching guards as Thranduil dragged him passed. 

When they arrived at the baths, Harry finally noticed that it was just the three of them. Tauriel had offered to run and fetch some clean clothing for Harry, and apparently for Thranduil, who felt the need to bathe after exerting himself dancing earlier.

Harry gave himself a discreet sniff when he thought no one was looking, and decided that he didn't smell. Thranduil didn't smell either, and they had only danced twice (Harry three times, because he had danced with Legolas too). Legolas wasn't planning to wash, and he had danced once, but maybe it was one of those weird customs that Harry would just get used to. After all, son and father not wanting to share a bath wasn't _that_ weird though. Wanting to share one with a stranger? A little bit weirder. Harry tried to protest, not wanting to strip naked in front of the royal family, but Legolas watched with a smirk, practically forgotten about by the King until he spoke. 

"Come now, Harry," Legolas said, pronouncing his name right, "I'm sure you have nothing to be ashamed of."

Thranduil's head turned towards him, eyes narrowed into slits, and Harry likened him momentarily to the Basilisk each time it had lunged forward for the kill. His features smoothed out after a moment though, once Legolas cleared his throat loudly and dipped into a quick bow. "Ah, I forgot I promised to help Tauriel. I'll see you tomorrow as we break fast, Harry. Atar, goodnight." He gave another quick bow, before backing up until he was behind the ivy curtain and out of sight. Considering the grin he had been sporting, Harry figured he was probably peeking through the closest gap, spying on them for whatever reason (because it had been what Fred and George used to do when they got the same look upon their faces). Thranduil said nothing though and made no move to check on his son, so Harry brushed it off, instead continuing to protest about his near nakedness. 

"I really don't need to take all of my clothes off now," he said, "I can take my underwear off under the water, surely?"

"We are both made the same, Harree." The Elven-king shot him a look, like he was waiting for Harry to correct his pronunciation again, so purposely Harry didn't. If Legolas could get it right, then there was no way Thranduil wasn't doing it just to mess with him. 

As if to prove his statement correct, Thranduil shrugged himself out of his last remaining piece of clothing: an under-shirt that looked more like a Victorian male's nightgown, loose in the waist and ending mid-thigh; worn Harry supposed like underwear should have been, because the King was wearing no actual underwear. He stood naked before the Wizard, who with a furious blush across his cheeks averted his eyes and cleared his throat, feeling suddenly awkward and aroused. He tried not to look, he really did, but Thranduil made it so hard. What with him walking right up to Harry, instead of getting in the water like any decent, body-shy person would have, and attempting to unlace Harry's robes. 

They were standard Unspeakable issue, so there were no fiddly buttons or buckles, in case they had to be pulled off in an emergency. But at the same time, zips hadn't found their way to the Wizarding World yet, so the outfit was laced up from navel to mid-chest, with the neck left open revealing the shirt he wore beneath. It was loose in the waist as well because Harry preferred it that way (choosing to ignore the lacing along the curve of his spine), so it wasn't hard for Thranduil to tug it up over his head. Harry's glasses got caught for a moment, and his arms flailed as the material tangled around them due to the unexpectedness of his being stripped, but Thranduil had him down to a shirt and trousers soon enough. The trousers were Muggle, but they were buttoned so the Elf didn't seem too bothered by them, but he was rather more surprised by the sight of Harry's boxer shorts. 

"Uh?" The Wizard stuttered, finally collecting himself enough to protest again. He jumped out of Thranduil's reach, ankles still inside of his trousers and so he tripped. He landed in the pool, amusingly enough with his shirt bunched up over his head by the time he got his feet back under him. 

Thranduil was laughing. With his head thrown back, long blond hair cascading over his shoulders, and his pointed ears peeking out teasingly, lips full and eyes bright, he was stunning to behold. Harry found himself struck by the Elf's beauty; so much so that when Thranduil lowered himself into the pool and pulled at Harry’s shirt, the Wizard even helped him. He had kicked off his trousers as well, throwing them haphazardly onto the ground along with Thranduil's clothing and his own robe, but his boxers stayed on, in spite (or rather because of) Thranduil's wandering hands. 

"Is this normal?" Harry asked, curious. He ducked under the King's arm again, not quite grown sick of evading the man's touches even after ten minutes of lazily swimming away from him. 

"Is what normal?"

"Is this usually how you greet unexpected guests? I was sort of imagining myself in a dungeon cell to be honest, especially with the way the others were pointing their weapons at me, but this is unusual too." 

Thranduil glided closer, boxing Harry against the edge of the spring. One hand cupped one of Harry's cheeks and the other pressed against his bare chest, feeling the beat of the Wizard's heart as it sped up. "You cannot feel it, can you?" He sounded sad when he spoke, almost wistful as well, and Harry was suddenly sorry for whatever it was he had failed at. "I can feel you, like a humming in my brain, or a thrumming through my veins, but you cannot feel me?"

"Um?" Harry concentrated, trying his best to wipe away the sadness that had come upon them, not wanting the frown to continue resting upon the King's lips. "I can feel my magic, with every beat of my heart, and I can feel the trees shifting above us and the earth around us because they are alive and growing and nurturing us." He could feel the dead too, shifting restlessly in the deeper, darker parts of the Mirkwood, spiders and Elves alike, and something else calling him from the shadows of Dol Guldur. Though he did not know its name, or if it even was one, he called it Horcrux. But he wasn't going to tell Thranduil that. "My magic feels you, seeks you out from across rooms and glades and has since you lay your hand upon my shoulder in that clearing, but I don't know why and I don't know if it is the same as whatever it is you feel."

"So you do feel me?" He smiled suddenly then, warmly, as his eyes raked over the flushed face of the younger male. And then Thranduil kissed him. 

It was sudden and unexpected, and Harry squeaked opening his mouth quite by accident. Thranduil's tongue traced along the seam of Harry's lips, before pushing further; seeking to taste his mate fully. Then the Wizard was struggling, pushing at Thranduil's shoulders and chest, and most certainly wasn't kissing him back, and so the Elf pulled away slowly, glancing worriedly down at his _fea_. 

"What is wrong, _Melyanna_?"3 Thranduil stroked one hand hesitantly down Harry's cheek, not enjoying the way the human flinched from his touch. 

"I'm married!" The Istari cried, still pushing at Thranduil's chest. "You can't just invite someone to take a bath with you and take their clothes and then start kissing them! That's not how you do things!" What he had meant to say was ‘slow down’, rather than ‘stop’, but Thranduil stopped nonetheless and jerked away like he had been burnt. Harry said nothing more about being married, because honestly it wasn't like he was even in the same world as Ginny now, but still, Harry was entitled to be a little upset and confused. After all, a King had just kissed him without warning! What did people even though in that sort of a situation? Probably kiss back... but it seemed a little too late for that now, given the furious scowl on Thranduil's face. 

He hissed something in the language the Elves had sang in earlier, and though Harry couldn't understand it, he could guess that it wasn't pleasant. Which was proven true when a handful of the earlier, unassumingly dressed guards burst through the ivy curtain, and two of them pulled Harry out of the pool. Thranduil followed more slowly, though his clenched jaw really took away from the calm and serene picture he was trying to create. "If that is how you want to be, then fine, have it your way, **Hahrie**!" He waved his hand leisurely, purposely not looking at them, and the guards began to pull Harry from the rooms. 

"Uh, clothes? Cold, wet, death, you know?" He asked, not all too worried about dying of a cold since the Killing Curse couldn't even kill him, but still he'd rather not be paraded around half-naked in front of a people whose King he'd apparently really pissed off. 

Thranduil's hand waved again, and one of the guards ran back to scoop up the bundle of clothing, wet shirt and trousers too. They waited long enough for Harry to slip his shoes back on, before two sets of hands squeezed tight around his biceps and tugging him away from their King. 

Thranduil watched them in silence, scowl darkening his features. But Harry thought he still looked beautiful, and sad too, as he caught the Elf’s eyes over his shoulder just once before the ivy curtain separated them. 

_XXX_

Ah Thranduil, I love you but you are so hard to write. Hopefully people enjoyed it. Also this ended up so much longer than the 2k I was planning it to be… 

 

1 – In Quenya it is Atar and in Sindarian it is Ada (according to an online translator). I can totally see Thranduil acted all high and mighty and teaching Legolas High Elf just because and Legolas casually picking up their own language from the others and getting confused.  
2 – Made up by combining Fea (meaning Soul) and Meldo (for lover) and adding the r to make it plural (lovers) since I couldn’t find a word for ‘soulmate’.   
3 – Quenya: dear gift/gift of love  
4 – French: Don’t come back, according to Google.

I hope you all enjoy it. It was getting a bit long, so I split it, but I'm half way through Part 2 (if it makes you feel any better). Let me know what you think? (First attempt at a HP fiction in a very long while...)


	2. The Wizard Saw An Elf, And The Elf Looked Good

Here’s part 2. Hopefully I’ll get it finished soon enough, but I’ll tell you right now it won’t be very long. There will be a few time skips, but yes, the Dwarves of Erebor are on their way home as we speak. 

Working on the assumption that Durin’s Day is the last day of Autumn, rather than August (being the last month of Autumn, according to some people), Durin’s Day is September 23rd, the Fall Equinox (2014). Harry arrived on March 20th, the day before the Spring Equinox. 

* * * 

**Words:** 5,587  
 **Chapter 2**  
“Definitely like the French Minister,” Harry muttered to himself. 

It had been at least an hour since Thranduil had sent him away, and in that time he had gone from being the guest of the King of the Woodland Realms, situated by his side and in the bedchamber intended for his Consort or Mistress (since his Queen had shared his own bed), to a prisoner in Mirkwood’s deepest, darkest dungeon. 

Harry knew Thranduil’s type, so he wasn’t too offended by the easy dismissal. Malfoy had been like that, back when they were children, holding a grudge for seven years because Harry hadn’t wanted to shake his hand. Maybe this was a little worse though? This was definitely more like the French Minister for Magic who along with his young second wife had been horribly insulted when Harry had attempted to compliment his ‘beautiful daughter’ in broken French. At least he had called her beautiful though, not that it counted towards him in the long run; he had practically been thrown back into the international floo grate and shipped right back to London with an angrily thrown handful of floo powder and a rather abrupt, “Ne pas revenir!”4

Harry hadn’t understood what that meant, but he understood the gesture well enough. Sticking up your middle finger was pretty common worldwide, and so were angry scowls and even angrier Howlers that arrived days later, just as you were getting over the embarrassment of it all. 

This, this was sort of like that, but Harry wasn’t even sure this time how he had offended the King. What was it he had said? Was it because he was married? Maybe. Or maybe Thranduil thought Harry had been leading him on: some men really didn’t like a tease, after all. He frowned, pulling his legs up against his chest and curling over them; settling down to think. Did it matter what Thranduil liked, or thought about him? Harry had married a woman, a woman who liked men’s clothes and men’s sports and drank like four of her brothers put together, but a woman nonetheless. Before that, he had fancied Cho Chang, also a woman, and there had been a couple of weeks where he had thought he might have fancied Luna, expect that had turned out to be hero worship (and wasn’t that a new experience for _him_ ). On the other hand, he had no problem admitting when someone was an attractive man. 

Thranduil was an attractive man, and the butterflies in Harry’s stomach attested to that every time he thought back to their dance in the clearing and the way the King’s gaze had undressed him with every sweeping glance. The kiss hadn’t been bad either, just surprising. Harry could have enjoyed it, you know, if he’d had a little warning, as unromantic as ‘I’m going to kiss you now’ might seem it was a far cry better than simply forcing one on him and then overreacting when he was caught by surprise!

"I thought you said this would be amusing to watch?" Legolas said from somewhere beyond Harry's range of vision. From the cell, he couldn't see much more than the wall opposite and he didn't care enough to try and squeeze his head through the bars to peek around. He could apparate out if he really needed to, but where would he go? At least here Thranduil would still feed him, and apparently Legolas would bring him dry clothes (after he had already used magic to dry his own, but whatever). 

"You don't think this is amusing?" Tauriel asked, offering a grin that Harry couldn't see. 

Legolas scoffed in response. "This is more pathetic, than anything else. I'm almost ashamed to be called Thranduilion." He shook his head pityingly as he approached the cell. There was a ring of keys in one hand and thrown over the other arm was a robe similar to what Thranduil had been wearing at the party. "I apologize on my Ada's behalf," Legolas offered softly, along with a quick bow from the waist, as he handed the keys over to his companion. 

Tauriel opened the cell door quickly and pulled it wide so that Harry could slip passed them. "Our King's ill temper is quite renowned. Perhaps someone should have warned you," she casually mentioned. There was a smile on her lips though as she turned back to her blond friend. "I think it is amusing."

"It's pathetic," Legolas insisted. He took a deep breath and held the clothes out to Harry. He was already wearing his Unspeakable robe again, so he just took the fancier robe and held on to it. "Please wear it. Atar would like to dine with you tonight, to apologize." 

"And so he should!" Harry exclaimed, though he did shrug on the robe over his old one. He left it unfastened, wearing it like a coat, and though Legolas looked displeased about it the Elf held his tongue. "I don't even know what I did!"

"Did he talk to you about _feaor_ 1 when you spoke in the bathing house?" Harry just raised an eyebrow in response. "We Elves are blessed by the Valor. Though we live long lives, and oftentimes we live many years alone, at some point we will find what you might call a soul mate. We call them our _fea-meldor_ , the beloved of our soul. You are my Ada's, and he has waited nigh on six-thousand years to meet you. I'm afraid he doesn't quite know how to go about winning your affections."

"Having a temper tantrum and locking me in a dungeon is certainly not the way to go about it!" Harry knew he was grousing unnecessarily; Thranduil wasn't even there to hear him. Still, though, the indignity of being locked up because the King was feeling like a nervous teenager on his first date and had made a fool of himself, well, that couldn't be let go of easily. Even if it meant that Legolas and Tauriel had to listen to his complaints when it had nothing to do with them, so be it. 

"What? Wait!" Harry suddenly jumped from complaining about being imprisoned to staring wide-eyed at the amused looking Elves. "What do you mean soul fees? Soul what now?"

“Ah, _fea-meldor_ ,” Legolas repeated, a furrow forming between his eyebrows, "in your language that would be, ah, soulmate?" He spoke slowly, like he thought Harry might be stupid or deaf. 

"Soulmate?" Harry blinked at him, looking like a deer caught by a wolf. He blinked again, his mouth working without sound for a few moments until he finally sputtered, "But I'm not his soulmate. I'm not even from here! That would be cruel, wouldn't it, if I was his mate?"

"Maybe you were always meant to come here," Tauriel suggested softly, as she reached out to squeeze Harry's shoulder. "Perhaps it wasn't an accident that the magical object you told us of transported you here?"

"But-- No! I have to go back. I have a family, and a wife, and my nephew is due any day now, and I have a niece! It's her birthday soon, and my job, and-" Legolas' hand covering his mouth shut him up, and Harry swallowed desperately as tears pooled in his eyes. He brushed them away angrily, dislodging Legolas' hand at the same time. "No. That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair," Tauriel sighed, glancing away from Harry as she spoke. "Come," she added sternly, "the King is waiting."

Harry let her pull him along; with her hand on his right shoulder and Legolas' arm linked with his left one it would have been pointless to resist, but anyway he wouldn't have tried. He was in too much of a daze to even consider running. He could have apparated, gone to the city of Men the Elves had pointed him to in the first place and tried to find an Istari there. He could have gotten a job, made some money, bought some of his own supplies and tried to send himself home, and likely blown himself up in the process. But instead he walked as if he were under the _Imperious_ , eyes half closed and head heavy as the Elves led him to King Thranduil: his soulmate. 

_XXX_

The dinner had been a horribly awkward, stilted affair. Legolas had joined them, acting as mediator between the still angry King and the stunned Wizard. It hadn't quite processed for Harry yet, and his unenthusiastic responses were obviously hurting Thranduil's feelings; though instead of saying as much, he reacted in anger, threatening to re-imprison Harry or to throw him from the Kingdom, until Legolas calmly pointed out that sending away his own _fea_ would cause suffering to none but himself. 

Dinner the following night was much the same. The breakfast in between them both was better, attended by only Legolas and Harry, as Thranduil apparently ate early so that he could hear any petitions earlier and get them over with. He spent much of that morning talking with Legolas, who despite refusing to show him the library without his father’s permission agreed to explain in more detail exactly what being a soulmate to an Elven-king would entail. He also took period breaks from their impromptu history lesson to casually mention how very much all of the Elves would love him should he decide to stay with their King, how much Thranduil would love him too, dropping hints of wealth and prestige and, mortifyingly, rumours of Thranduil’s bedroom expertise. Harry didn’t bother attempting to explain that he was rich himself, because none of his wealth had travelled with him and he had no way of proving it, so it was just easier to nod, agree and occasionally blush as Legolas tried his hardest to play devil’s advocate in Harry’s non-existent relationship. 

The next day’s breakfast was much the same, except this time Legolas took Harry for a walk afterwards. He was careful to introduce Harry first to the guards who had arrested him two nights ago, specifically mentioning that Harry was the King’s _fea_ and a welcome guest, despite his tantrum two nights ago, which was to be hurriedly forgotten about assuming Harry was willing. The Wizard had simply shrugged, already over it. He was far more worried now about how he might get home (before Legolas tricked him into marriage or something). 

Thranduil, when they crossed paths, was polite and courteous and stared at Harry something horrible, but he never raised his voice or spoke in that language that Harry couldn’t understand again. He pulled chairs out for his mate, and pushed them back in, and made sure that Harry was served first at dinner by the servants even though the Wizard barely acknowledged him beyond a quiet ‘thank you’. 

"Soulmate?" Harry's voice was soft and unsure, and it came towards the end of the meal, once the servants had cleared away the leftovers and brought out three little bowls of what might have been bread-pudding with honey. His green eyes were fixed on Thranduil's face, watching as the King's features tensed up into a scowl and then softened with sudden understanding. “When you were talking of being able to feel me, that’s what you meant?” 

"You did not know of what I spoke earlier?" The Elf questioned his lips quirked once more in amusement. Harry’s face had gone red, and Thranduil raised one eyebrow, outright grinning now, obviously knowing what Harry had been thinking. “Nothing as salacious as that, _Melyanna_ ,”2 the Elven-king chided with a wink. 

He went through moods faster than a pregnant woman, Harry thought, during their third dinner together while remembering how Hermione had been the months just gone. With Rose she had been practically fine, but still pregnant with Hugo, Hermione’s temper had long won out over her patience and love for her husband, Ron. "No, obviously not, and it wasn't like you explained very much before you had me arrested!"

Thranduil took the scolding with grace. He offered a tilt of his head in apology, though his smile widened as he reached across the table to grab Harry's hand. With their fingers laced, Thranduil began to explain about soulmates and the Valor and his deceased Queen, often repeating things that Legolas had already told Harry. At the end of it, when he asked Harry kindly if the Wizard would stay with him, neither noticed Legolas grab his pudding and slip silently from the room. 

"I want to go home," Harry told the blond softly, almost pityingly. "If you help me search, and we can't find a way, then I'll give up." Thranduil watched him warily, not sure if he should agree or not. "Six months," Harry suggested, because if it took longer than that for a Wizard to cross his path, it might take years, and who knew how many years it could take? Perhaps by that point, Thranduil might have realised he was mistaken and Harry would be free to go regardless. 

“Then I promise to stay.” Wizards lived for a reasonably long time, and he would live for even longer than that, so what was six months to him in the scheme of things? Thranduil's wide smile more than made up for any loss he might have felt over the promised six months (and anyway, if Hermione couldn't find a way to rescue him within three months from her side of the universe, Harry’d eat his wand). 

"That seem like a reasonable request," Thranduil acknowledged softly. His hand stayed holding Harry's, but his free hand moved back to his pudding, happily spooning some of it up and feeding himself. With a sly grin, he held the next spoonful out to Harry, who looked from it and his own pudding in confusion. The spoon was suddenly jammed in his mouth, silver clacking off of his teeth and the Wizard scowled even as he swallowed. 

"That isn't endearing you to me at all," he matter-of-factly stated, his words lost under the sound of Thranduil laughing. 

_XXX_

Harry couldn't tell if Thranduil was keeping his promise or not. 

He had been shown the library in all of its wonder. Other Elves had offered themselves to his service, though somewhat reluctantly once they were told Harry was searching for a way to leave their King; but they helped him nonetheless. Sometimes Thranduil stayed in the library, seated at the mahogany tables beside his _fea_ with a scroll in one hand and his head cradled tiredly in the other, eyes not really reading the words before him. But no one had found anything yet. And no one ever came through the Mirkwood. Harry couldn't decide if they just didn't really like strangers, and similarly, strangers really didn't like them (or perhaps the spiders got them first?), or if Thranduil was purposely keeping him away from any outsider that might know where an Istari could be found. He didn't quite want to ask either, because after mentioning it passing to Legolas and seeing how upset the other looked, well, Harry would rather Thranduil not look at him like that either. 

But still. Surely, someone had to know how he could get home? 

Or Hermione had to have found a way, any way, and her messages just weren’t being passed along? 

He couldn't stay here forever! It had been two months already, and Harry only had four months left to find a way home, but he hadn’t expected it to be so hard. Things usually just fell into place for him, and he’d always known that Hermione was invaluable, but it wasn’t until now that he understood just how much he and Ron had truly relied upon her for all of these years. 

Harry glanced to his left, where Thranduil was sitting and silently watching him, one leg crossed at the knee and his arms hanging over the arm rests. He was making no attempt to even _seem_ like he was helping Harry research, but every now and then he'd lick his lips, remembering the taste of Harry's kisses from moments before when he'd pulled Harry away from his own scroll and into his lap, until his head librarian's pointed coughing broke them apart. 

"Not so near the books!" The she-Elf had whispered, eyes cast down respectfully even as she scolded the King. Harry had laughed softly, reminded fondly of Hermione and her wonderful priorities, but he had obediently climbed back into his own chair and resumed his reading. He hadn't found anything to help him yet, but he did find that he missed the taste and feel of Thranduil Oropherion... but that was something he'd just have to get used to, since he wasn't planning on staying in Middle Earth forever. 

_XXX_

It was two weeks into June before Harry realised that Hermione wasn’t coming for him (at least not before the three month mark). He wasn’t actually going to eat his wand, since no one knew he had promised to and so no one could make him, but he did bar himself in the library at one point, with his desk pushed right up against the heavy, oak doors, hiding. 

Harry curled up under it, legs to his chest and face tucked against his knees. Agelosdis, the head Librarian, was too busy pacing back and forth before him, feet and shins visible from Harry’s hiding place, muttering angrily to herself to think of actually moving the table away from the doors personally. The Elves seemed to forget that they were stronger than humans, worrying about how to move back a table that Harry had levitated over without the help of others, especially Thranduil whose fingerprints were bruised into Harry’s skin. 

It was accidental and Harry had rather enjoyed the activities that led to him being marked up, but every time he changed his clothes the bruises were there, plain to see. At every sight of them, every brush of clothes against them that stung, or accidental touch from another Elf, Harry was reminded of the time he spent with their King instead of in the library trying to find a way home. On the other hand, he didn’t want to not spend time with the King, because Thranduil, when he wasn’t being petulant, was charming and funny and intelligent. He made Harry smile and his heart beat faster and his stomach quiver with nerves and excitement. The Wizard was locked in a perpetual state of arousal for hours after every touch the Elven-king placed upon him; like being a teenager again, hard in his pants hidden under his robe because a pretty girl had winked at him in the hallway. Harry liked him. Harry liked Thranduil, like he had once liked Ginny, and Cho, but he didn’t love him. Not like he had loved Ginny (and still sort of did), and Ron, Hermione, and the other Weasleys, not like he loved his little Rose, and would love Hugo (who was probably screaming the Burrow down right that minute—and hey maybe that was why Hermione hadn’t rescued him yet?) Yet the Elves continued to be surprised that Harry wanted to go home. 

Rescue, he thought to himself, still hiding beneath the table. Did he actually need to be rescued? Not since that first night had Thranduil done anything to him without his permission, nor had anyone else accosted or arrested him. He wasn’t hurt and he was well fed, he had access to wherever he pleased though the King had asked that he remain within Mirkwood’s borders (Legolas assured him that it was a general request, for everyone, and not just Harry being singled out, which made it completely acceptable as requests went). He didn’t need to run from anyone, and he could have hidden in his own bedroom if he really needed to, instead of upsetting Agelosdis. No, rescue was the wrong word to use, but that didn’t mean Harry didn’t want to leave. He liked Thranduil, sure, and Legolas too, but he missed his home and he only had three months and two weeks to find a way to get back there. 

_XXX_

When the second last week of June was upon them, the Elves changed, seemingly overnight, from the most composed of races to a wild horde of party planners. It was the starlight festival (again, apparently) and they hadn’t left much time to prepare. 

“Last year it was on the 23rd day,” Tauriel told Harry, arms full of carefully woven flower crowns. “But this year it’s on tomorrow, two whole days early.”

“We already celebrated the festival of starlight? I got arrested, remember?” Harry reached out to help her, taking the top two crowns before they could crush the others. 

“There are four each year, and each follows the change in the seasons. We give thanks at each of them, as the stars change positions and the weather changes its pattern in the hopes that the Valor will bless the coming season.” A male Elf had snuck up behind them, his voice making Harry jump in surprise. He was Noruinivon, one of the guards Thranduil had assigned to Harry for whenever his wanderlust struck him. 

“Are you talking about the Summer Solstice? That’s, uh, June 21st?” Harry tried to remember the celebrations Hermione had tried to teach him and Ron, insisting that as Wizards they should celebrate the Pagan holidays rather than just Christmas (Ron should have anyway, considering he had been raised magical, but the Weasleys had never been too strict on their worshiping). “And I was here for the Spring Equinox, right?” 

Oron had joined them by this point, his own arms laden with trays of food, stacked one on top of the other. Noruinivon was cradling four oak staves, carefully carved so that they already looked as if ribbons had been twined around them. Harry smiled at the sight of the may-poles, despite their being a month late, wondering if there were even any children in the Woodland Realms to tie the ribbons to the poles. But maybe that was why the poles were carved already? 

"Perhaps," Oron said, carefully turning so that he could see Harry without dropping the silver platters he carried. "But we do not call them that."

"What are the other names?" Tauriel asked. The four of them walked together, though Harry lagged behind at one point to help another Elf who was attempting to lift actual daisy chains (huge big ones, with red blossoms and briars and ivy interwoven with them)by herself. Harry explained about the Spring and Fall Equinox and the Summer and Winter Solstice as best as he could remember, dates and names and general ways of celebrating them included. "Yes, that is what we celebrate, though there are many names for them. We call your 'Fall' day the feast of Eranith5 and the Dwarves call it Durin's Day. It is a time of celebrating the harvest, so that we may have enough to sustain us throughout the winter."

"The Winter Solstice is the first day of winter, the longest day of the year before the nights start getting longer and the days shorter. I remember a few years ago, a few of my friends decided that we should celebrate it; none of us were particularly religious, Pagan or Christian, you know, but we thought it'd be a great excuse for a party. We were all busy at the time, I think I was half way through my final year of training as an Auror and all I did at night was fall asleep wherever I was standing. Everyone else was the same, so, you know, we decided to give ourselves a break. We lit this huge bonfire, learnt all the dances and made the food ourselves, and my friend Seamus ended up dropping a bottle of Ogden's finest into the bonfire!" Harry laughed, lost in the memories. The others listened silently, half-smiles on their faces, because it was nice to hear their friend's stories but at the same time each of them knew the Wizard would rather go back to those friends than to stay with _them_. 

He continued, still chuckling fondly. "It's alcohol, Ogden's, I mean. The bonfire seemed to explode! It was terrifying and brilliant and everything was crazy. We were trying to put it out and dance around it at the same time, half of us too drunk to stand and then of course someone called the Aurors, and of course _I_ get their memo, little flying pieces of paper that tell me where I have to be. I had to go into the office, get dressed and go back to put out the fire, officially, that I couldn't put out before. I'm surprised they didn't make me arrest myself!" 

Thranduil was waiting in the same clearing the first party had been in when they arrived. Harry helped to unload the other Elves' burdens after setting his two crowns down by the King's throne. His two were more elaborate than the ones Tauriel still held, so it was safe to assume that they were for Thranduil and Legolas. 

"What is an Auror?" The King asked, overhearing the end of the conversation. 

"Sort of like magical police, or guards I guess. We keep the peace. I changed jobs though, quite recently actually. 

That's what my friend and I were arguing about when I had my accident. I'm an Unspeakable now."

"Sounds terrifying," Tauriel said grinning. She offered the King a quick bow, as did the others, before going back to her duties. 

"Did you not enjoy keeping the peace, _Melyanna_?" Thranduil was smiling softly when Harry turned to look at him, but there was a tightness around his eyes that said clearly that he didn't enjoy hearing Harry reminisce about his old life so wistfully. 

"Well, once I stopped aging it was difficult to be taken seriously in my job. Also, as a collective, Wizards don't deal well with strange occurrences and I'm everything that's strange in the world." Harry gave a self-deprecating smile. 

Thranduil's hand moved to cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly across the bow of Harry's mouth. "You are perfect, if a bit young," the Elven-king whispered, dipping down to offer him a chaste kiss. 

"I'm twenty eight years old, and I'll never look any older. It's pretty strange."

"Not among my kin." Thranduil waved his free hand around, indicating that Harry should look. He turned his head left then right, watching the gathered Elves as they worked to ready the clearing for their party that night and the next; each of them looked young, though none as young as he did. But none looked older than their King, who according to Legolas had lived for over half a millennium already. "Here, you fit right in."

_XXX_

Harry spent the first night sitting quietly by Thranduil's side in the clearing while everyone else danced around the may-poles. Legolas asked him to dance once, refusing to take no for an answer, and Harry found himself stuck in a strange game of red-rover-come-over, ducking under Legolas' arm until the Elf beside him tripped and knocked down three others at once. They spent some time laughing in a pile on the ground, the wine having gone to their heads by that point, while Harry left them there in favour of Thranduil's more comfortable lap. 

He wore the second flower crown, not Legolas; though, it was more accurate to say Harry hung it on the back of the small throne the King sat in, while the King wore his own instead of his usual crown of briars and berries and antlers. It was nice, and Harry was happy, even though he only danced once and Thranduil never let him too far out of his sight, but it was nice. 

Like three months ago, Thranduil didn't attend the festival on the actual night of the Summer Solstice. He, once more, invited Harry to dine with him and Legolas in private, and unlike last time the conversation was much less stilted. Harry didn't stay for long though, politely waiting until desert was finished before asking if anyone would mind if he retired early. Thranduil waved him away nonchalantly, appearing completely unconcerned as Harry pressed a kiss to the back of the King's raised hand and left. Legolas squeezed his father's shoulder, but said nothing as they watched the door swung closed behind the Wizard. 

"Three more months, min hên,"3 Thranduil whispered. 

Legolas thought of asking his father if he could truly be happy knowing that he had trapped his _fea_ here, that whether putting a time frame on the other man, the expiration of which was the only reason that Harry wouldn't leave him, hurt him, the way his Queen's death had hurt him, or if it was alright because at least Harry would be there. Unwilling or otherwise. But he bit his tongue and kept eating his desert, one hand staying on Thranduil's shoulder in silent support and the other fisted in his lap, nails biting into his palm as he prayed to the Valor his own _fea_ would not be so complicated. 

Harry knew he shouldn't have left like that, knew he should have smiled and invited Thranduil to take a walk with him or at least offered to join him in the King's bedchambers later on for a drink. But he had wanted to be alone. Hermione - not that she knew it - was out of time, and Harry had three months left until the Elves would stop helping him search and the thought was terrifying, made scarier by the whisperings in his mind that suggested, like Tom's locket had suggested things, that maybe he wouldn't mind. 

It was hard, despite how kind Thranduil was to him, to truly like the King, because though Harry enjoyed his company and his attention he knew that if he could have Thranduil would have made him promise to stay from the offset instead of allowing him the six month reprieve. The Wizard was half surprised every morning when he woke to find himself _not_ locked back in the dungeon cell, if only to keep him from leaving (though with his magic it wouldn't have been a hardship to escape). The Elves hadn't seen much of his magic, just a couple of _Lumos_ ' at night when Harry stayed out too late walking and got lost on his way back, or a few levitation charms to move things like desks and books about the library (much to a certain head librarian's displeasure). Most of them thought he was like Mithrandir, capable of great feats of magic only on limited occasions and the rest of it was parlour tricks; Harry chose not to correct them, wanting instead to keep his advantage just in case he did have to escape someday. He didn't think Thranduil would actually keep him there by force, surely the Elf knew that no relationship could come of such behaviour, but desperate men did desperate things (no matter their race) and it was best to be safe than sorry. 

He walked out towards the clearing, but skirted around it, careful not to be seen. A notice-me-not spell helped with that, and he tried to walk quietly so as not to draw the attention of the Elven mouse-like ears. They were singing in Sindarin again, soft, clear voices calling to the sky and the Valor and Harry found himself humming along despite not knowing or understanding the words. He found the tree he had long ago favourited, close to where he had woken up but not too near to where the spiders had first appeared: it's branches were high enough to keep him safe from uninvited creatures, but there were two lower down, just within reach if he jumped, and from there Harry managed to haul himself higher and higher, until his head pierced the leaves at the top. 

Butterflies scattered around his face, reds and browns fluttering away like autumn leaves displaced by wind, soaring through the sky as the moon and the stars bathed the lake in silver. Harry glanced around at it all in awe, smile wide on his face, and he stayed there, watching the stars twinkle and the fish make ripples on the lake in the distance and the men in the town, tiny like ants, at their own celebration. 

It was beautiful and calm and lovely, and Harry was half tempted to climb back down and ask Thranduil to join him, but he refrained. The King didn't leave his palace, and Harry couldn't stay cooped up in there forever, even if he did stay in Mirkwood, so Thranduil might as well get used to it now. 

And wasn't that scary? He was already planning his future here. But he didn't want to; he wanted to go home. So he pushed the thoughts from his mind, eyes narrowing on something in the distance, a lump in the horizon like a mountain, all on its own. It looked so lonely, sort of like how Harry felt here, cut off from magic and his friends and his _life_. He purposely ignored the thoughts that his traitorous mind whispered to him, of his new friends, and how the King and Prince would be his new family. He wanted to be childish and petulant for once, he wanted things to go his way, so he focused on the bad things. So Harry watched the lonely mountain, and he felt alone. 

_XXX_

4 – French: Don’t come back, according to Google. (Accidentally put this one in the last chapter’s notes).   
1 – Fea, meaning soul (or- plural). Imaginary plural of soulmate.   
2 – Quenya: dear gift/gift of love  
5 – No idea how to spell the festival of starlight’s actual name. Also, these notes are so not in the right order…   
3 – My son. 

_XXX_

Thanks for reading. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that James II and Albus Severus have been born by this point; I’m getting to them. Also. Why is this so long? There’s so much more I want to put into it, what the hell?

Thanks to everyone who commented and read and enjoyed the first chapter. Let me know what you thought! 600 words of chapter 3 done… so many more to go…


	3. Chapter III

A lot of people have a lot of opinions as to the way this story should go, and obviously I won’t be able to please everybody at once, so I hope no one is too upset by what I’ve chosen to do. Harry’s children will be involved at some point (Lily hasn’t been conceived yet, and won’t be since Harry is in Mirkwood at the time) but our favourite couple will have their happily ever after, don’t worry. 

As to Thranduil’s behaviour: the theory is that as the darkness spreads through Mirkwood, it affects the King. My belief is that since Harry met Thranduil six months before Dol Guldur’s forces made themselves known, he was less affected in those six months than he was by the end of the second film. Also, it’s been about 6 years since I read the book, so movie!verse for the most part. He has his moments of insanity, but that comes I think from old age, (according to wiki he’s about 6000 give or take) and one of the Firstborn, rather than from an actual desire to hurt Harry or force him to stay there. 

But anyway. We’ve reached the 3rd Half Quarter. Only a month to go until the Fall Equinox/Durin’s Day. Enjoy. 

* * * 

**Words:** 6,458  
 **Chapter 3**  
The next thing Harry Potter knew, the sun was up and something was pecking at his cheek. His eyes fluttered open, his face turning to scratch itself on the bark of the tree, trying to dislodge whatever was touching him. The first thing he saw was the sun, shining bright right into his eyes and Harry blinked furiously, startled. Whatever was on his face made a noise of discontentment, fluttering beside his ear as it flew away. Harry's arms slipped from the branches, covering his face from the light, and he fell. Suddenly, he could hear the voices calling his name, some faint and some loud, Elves fanning through the forest in search of him. Harry was silent until he hit the ground, still too stunned by his wake up call to be afraid, but he groaned as he slammed into an exposed root, curling over it and his chest protectively (though it was his back that ached). 

The raven that had landed on his face, and woken him, followed him down at a more sedate pace. It perched on the lower branch that Harry always used to get into the tree to begin with, and it cawed down at it with its head tilted enquiringly to one side. "Hurt?" It asked him. 

Harry blinked in reply. 

"Hurt," the raven decided. It flew away then, towards the loudest of the various voices and when it returned Tauriel was with it. 

"Oh Valor! Harry!" She cried, as she dropped to her knees beside him. "We feared you'd run off! King Thranduil had some of the guard dispatched to Lake-Town to search for you!" The ‘and drag you back’ was left unsaid. 

"That bird spoke to me," Harry told her calmly. He sounded a little out of it, he knew, and it was no wonder Tauriel was looking at him as if he had gone mad, but still, he was very certain he hadn't imagined the talking raven. "Is that normal?"

"They usually only speak to Dwarves," the she-Elf replied. She hauled him to his feet, one arm around his waist even as the other pulled a dainty looking horn from her belt. She blew into it twice, one short and one longer, and after a moment someone answered with one long bellowing sound. "Come, let's get you back inside. The King wishes to see you."

Harry followed her, taking careful steps because suddenly his right ankle really hurt and his back was sore too and he was totally coming back here to hack up that particular tree root (and maybe that raven too if it didn't stop looking at him so smugly, Harry thought). 

“The King?” He asked after a moment, wondering why Thranduil wanted to see him before breakfast. 

Tauriel didn't answer; she led him in silence back to the palace and down to the private bathing pool in the bath house. She didn't help him, but his personal guard was there. Noruinivon helped him undress, throwing him the odd worried look, but mostly he looked concerned for his own hide, and it was no wonder why because Harry had only managed to shuck off his tunic when the ivy curtain was practically ripped down from the ceiling as a furious Elven-king stormed into the room. 

" _Where have you been_?" He shrieked in Sindarin, his hands darting out terrifyingly fast to catch Harry by the shoulders. He shook Harry furiously twice, back and forth, until Legolas joined them. The Prince was panting, obviously having run from the forest with the others to catch up with Tauriel. He pulled the King away, hands curled tightly around Thranduil’s wrists. 

“Stop, Ada, stop! You’ll hurt him!” The Prince shrieked. He looked horribly frazzled, no doubt having spent the night on the receiving end of his father’s angry and panicked ranting. Legolas' face was flushed a dark pink across the cheeks and his eyes were wide and grim as he looked at Harry. "We were worried," he told the Wizard after he had successfully pulled his father away. 

Thranduil's hands stayed curled into claws even after he had dropped them to his side. His face was a darker red than his son's, mouth swollen from frowning and eyes red-rimmed as well, though Harry doubted it was from shedding tears. 

"Where were you!" It was a demand, rather than a question, and Harry bristled at Thranduil's tone. If he had been a cat, he would have been hissing with his tail raised, but as it was he only narrowed his eyes and rubbed at his sore head (somewhat reducing the impact of his angry glare). 

"Is it any of your business? I'm here, aren't I? Still your prisoner, don't worry!" The look of shock on Legolas' face took the wind out of Harry's metaphorical sails. Thranduil still looked incensed, apparently not at all affected by Harry's mistaken (or perhaps correct) belief, but Legolas looked so very hurt by his words that Harry instantly wanted to take them back. He didn't though; he wouldn't; not while he still had hope left that he might get to go home. So instead, he ran a hand tiredly down his face before offering Legolas a soft smile. "I fell asleep in the tree. I went for a walk last night, is all, I didn't mean to worry anyone."

"As long as you are alright," Legolas said softly. He left his father's side long enough to pull Harry into a hug, but then darted back to stand behind the King, one hand on his father's shoulder just in case he needed restraining again. 

"Why do you want so badly to leave me?" Thranduil's head tilted to one side, like an owl glancing curiously at prey that was just that much out of reach, deciding whether it was worth the hassle to chase it. "What do you have to return to, when all those you love will age and die while you remain unchanging? Your wife? Your friends? What can they offer you that I have not?" There was something strange about the look on his face, and it made Harry's heart beat faster with terror. He took a step away, swallowing nervously as he thought about his answer, and tried not to compare Thranduil to Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets as he waxed poetic about the power of his future-self. They shared the same glint in their eyes, the same half-coy smile that flitted between anger and desire. With his hair mused from running through the forest and his robes dirty and hands clawing at his sides, Thranduil looked like a mad, wild thing, and considering his age, the King probably was.

"If someone took you away from your home, would you not want to return?" The Elven-king gave no response. Harry could see by the determined frown on his mouth that _that_ reason wasn't enough to garner any sympathy from his soulmate. "If someone took your son from you, would you not want to return to him?" Harry asked instead. Thranduil's eyes narrowed as Legolas squeezed his shoulder. Some of the Elves that surrounded them hissed, as if Harry had uttered a threat, but their King waved them into silence. 

"You have a son?" The firstborn's voice was soft, sad and resigned. "I see." 

Harry thought of James, dark haired and brown eyed, two years old and always smiling. He thought of Albus Severus, who had only turned one and didn't do much more than eat, sleep and gurgle happily when Harry tickled his belly. It wouldn't be so bad, Harry thought, if the children were older, if he had had more time with them, but it wouldn't be fair to them or to him to leave them now. Thranduil had raised Legolas for a thousand years, or more, but he would begrudge Harry his children's mortal childhoods? Or at least, Harry thought he would already preparing himself for the forthcoming argument, but Thranduil had already turned his back on him and was walking slowly back into the forest, the way he had come. 

Harry turned to Legolas, who shrugged. "Atar would have gone after me," the Elf said in explanation, as if it were truly so simple. "He will not so easily give you up, Harry," Legolas added, probably seeing the relief that crossed Harry's face. He quirked his lips up in a brief smile and continued, "Though it appears as such now. I promise you, you will not leave here if it is within the King's power to stop you." And with that ominous statement, Legolas turned his back on Harry as well, retreating towards the safety and comfort of his palace-- and Harry's prison. 

_XXX_

Harry had expected Thranduil to be colder towards him. After all, mentioning Ginny had gotten Harry locked in a dungeon cell overnight. Having young children by his wife should have put Thranduil into an even fouler mood, seeing as they were picked over himself, but having a son of his own had obviously instilled a sense of parental priority in him, for Thranduil was even more attentive than before. 

Instead of waiting at his own table for Harry and Legolas to join him in the mornings, Thranduil began knocking on the adjoining door between their rooms and walking in before Harry had even responded. Servants followed him, laden with trays of porridge and fruit, nuts and buttered scones, tea and water and anything else Harry had been fond of during the previous three months. Legolas no longer joined them, unless Harry specifically asked someone to call for him, but more often than not Harry was neither awake nor aware enough to concern himself with Legolas' absence. He was usually more concerned with Thranduil's presence, for the Elven-king had taken it upon himself to turn Harry's bed into their new breakfast table. 

They sat cross-legged with their backs against the headboard, pillows shoved behind them to make it more comfortable, and a cushion across Thranduil's lap, the platter balanced on top of it. He fed Harry fruit with his fingers, in between mouthfuls of porridge off a silver spoon that Harry was 'allowed' to feed himself. They spoke softly as they ate, or chewed loudly in the lulls between conversations, of topics that ranged from the weather to Legolas' childhood, to Thranduil's dead Queen to Harry's lost children. The weather was usually the easiest conversation of the day, passing them by unfortunately fast, and then leaving them with nothing but the more uncomfortable topics to fall back on to fill the awkward silences. 

But Harry could never bring himself to dismiss Thranduil, not when it was his palace that they sat in, nor would Harry run from his own room in his underwear to hide from the King, and certainly not when Thranduil looked at him as he always did when they reached the point of every conversation where you knew it was time to end it. The King’s eyes would half close, lashes seeming longer than they were as silver-blue eyes met Harry’s from beneath them. His lips would quirk, just a little at the corners as his teeth peeked through, making the Elf look hungry as he lent forward, offering his mouth up to Harry. He never kissed first, not since the night Harry spent sleeping in the forest. Before that, it was all Harry could do to keep away from Thranduil’s seeking limbs, but afterwards, the King always offered, a hand out until Harry took hold of it, or his chin tilted forward silently asking for a kiss, rather than demanding, or as he sat sometimes he would spread his legs and push one foot more forward than the other to offer himself up as a stool. 

And Harry always accepted. 

There were moments when he tried not to, where he tried to remind himself of Ginny (who he loved, but no longer _loved_ nor desired but was his wife nonetheless), or he tried to tell himself that he wasn’t gay (though it seemed to be only Thranduil whom he found attractive. The other Elves were pleasant to look at, yes, but none made his cock take notice like Thranduil did). And then there were the moments where his eyes would meet the Elven-king’s and nothing else would matter but the taste and feel and sound of the Elf as he gathered Harry into his arms, and the Wizard lost himself to that, kissing until they were out of breath and touching one another until a bath became a necessary fixture of each morning and evening, and sometimes afternoon. 

If he had been a girl, Harry would have bet money on the fact that Thranduil was trying to get him pregnant, to use his reasoning of his children against him. That wasn’t possible, but sex in itself was a weapon too. One that Harry was rather quickly losing against. 

Hands were rough against his skin, tugging off his night-shirt with enough force to tear the collar of it. Harry moaned, the sudden rush of adrenaline that shot through him at the thought of being vulnerable and weak beneath Thranduil’s hands made his blood rush through his ears. He threw himself forward, scrabbling to get into the Elf’s lap, knocking the platter and cushion to the ground, but no one came running at the sound for the servants had tried that once and been thrown from the room by their enraged and jealous King. They had stood, wide eyed at the sight of Harry naked and seated in Thranduil’s lap that first time, until threats to their life had chased them from the room. Now, they were left alone, the remainder of their breakfast splattered across the ground, eventually hidden by falling clothing. 

Thranduil sat with his back against the headboard, the pillows tugged away so that he could recline a little, Harry sitting over him, legs spread on either side of Thranduil’s hips. He was wearing shorts (instead of underwear, which needed to be washed every evening and usually wasn’t dry in time for bed) made from leggings that had been cut short, and Thranduil slipped one hand beneath the waistband, palming at Harry’s erection. The Elf was dressed in his usual finery, and generally that meant that when they fucked Harry was naked and Thranduil almost fully clothed, face and hands bare and cock pulled over the band of his leggings, lowered just enough to bare his groin. 

But this morning, Harry pushed needily at the high collar of the Elven-king’s tunic, pulling it away from his throat so that Harry’s mouth could follow the path of his hands with kisses. He managed to unbutton it down to Thranduil’s chest, in and around the frantic kisses that were bestowed upon his face and mouth; hands slipping underneath the hem to lift it up as Harry wiggled back so that there was enough room between their bodies to slip the tunic over Thranduil’s head. Bare chested, the Elven-king watched with eyes dark from desire as Harry dipped his head to press a chaste kiss to the dip between Thranduil’s collarbones. His mouth moved then, pink lips swollen from kisses and parted to leave sucking bruises down the King’s chest until his tongue could circle one nipple. 

Men were like women in that respect, Harry had learnt. Thranduil arched his back, pressing further towards Harry’s mouth, to offer himself up for more of that pleasure. Harry smirked against pale skin, licking roughly over the hardened nub. He moved his head, licking at the other side of his lover’s chest for only a moment before a hand fisted in his hair wrenched his head away. Thranduil growled loudly, eyes narrowed as he practically threw Harry off of him. He was dangerous and gorgeous as he pulled off Harry’s makeshift shorts, tugging the fabric down Harry’s trembling legs, which, once they were naked, moved to curl around the Elf’s waist. Harry’s arms hooked around Thranduil’s neck, pulling the other down on top of him; their bodies pressed tightly together, trapped by needy limbs. 

“Kiss me?” Harry asked softly. He didn’t need to ask, he knew, not once Thranduil was this far gone, but the way the King’s eyes dilated at the words made Harry feel drunk with arousal. “Fuck me,” the Wizard added as he rocked his hips up to brush their erections together. 

Thranduil’s nails cut in to the flesh of Harry’s thighs as he pulled the man’s legs away from his waist. Beads of blood decorated pale skin for a moment, unnoticed until Thranduil’s hands accidentally wiped them away as he used Harry’s bent legs to steady himself as he worked off his leggings. When they were both equally as naked, the Elf ran his hands soothingly over the shallow half-moon cuts, half-frowning in apology. He offered his _fea_ a kiss as he lay back between the other’s legs, fingers questing downwards in search of Harry’s entrance. One blunt finger, then two, pushed against him, making Harry wince. With a wave of his hand, the jar of oil that had taken up residence on Harry’s bedside cabinet floated its way over to the bed, landing with a small bounce beside Thranduil’s left knee. He reached for it, making quick work of coating his fingers, before pressing them back to where they had been, more easily this time working their way inside of Harry’s body. 

Though they slept in separate beds, because Harry had never invited Thranduil to sleep in his and Thranduil had thought better of simply carrying a sleeping Harry into his own, they had lain together every night for the past month. Like every morning, Harry was still loose and wet inside, seed now mixed with oil as Thranduil prepared him for his cock again. The dried stains along Harry’s inner thigh made Thranduil puff up his chest with pride, even as more globs of sticky white escaped him every time Thranduil removed a finger; the sound obscene but so very welcome and it made both of them shudder with desire. Thranduil pressed inside of him at last, cock thick and blunt against his hole, fitting easily inside the body that was made for him, chasing last night’s semen back where it belonged: marking Harry as his from the inside out. 

Thranduil fucked him viciously, hands bruising his thighs and hips (depending on where Thranduil held him at the time), and his head half hidden underneath his pillow as he was pushed up and up the bed with each punishing thrust. The headboard rocked against the wall, but no one came to investigate the noise, and neither of them would have wanted anyone to, nor would they have noticed. Lost in pleasure, mouths open and panting and eyes fixed only on each other’s’ faces, nothing could have come between them and their release. Harry came first: legs locked high around Thranduil’s waist with one hand curled around the headboard to ground him and the other pulling at the Elf’s long blond hair as he thrashed, stomach coiling and cock spurting in Thranduil’s fist. His muscles clenched around the Elven-king’s cock, and the Elf let his head drop forward at the feeling, revelling in it, at causing Harry’s pleasure and at the pleasure it gave him; allowing himself his own release once Harry had calmed enough to lift his head up for another kiss. Thranduil pressed his mouth hard and unmoving against Harry’s own, coming hard into Harry’s body as his almost silent cry was lost in Harry’s mouth. 

Their kisses were slower after their orgasms, but no less needy, and the Elven-king turned to lie on his back and pulled his lover along with him. His cock slipped free and Harry moaned softly from the loss of fullness and the uncomfortable sensation of flesh dragging against his overly sensitive prostate and rim as he was emptied. Seed dripped from him in small globules every time he shifted his legs, but he had gotten used to the odd feeling and no longer felt the overwhelming urge to wash himself clean the moment Thranduil pulled out of him. His past behaviour had offended the King, Harry knew, and the Elf took perverse pleasure now in watching Harry lie there full of his seed, in swirling his fingers teasingly across Harry’s hole and dipping into the oil and come and then smearing it across Harry’s cheeks and thighs. Sometimes Thranduil licked it off, and sometimes he offered it to Harry benevolently, but this morning he merely pulled the other man close, one hand low on Harry’s back to press their bodies together, and he drifted to sleep. 

Harry lay with him, eyes closed and breath shallow, but he didn’t sleep. Instead, he thought about his past and his future and the present. He hated himself for thinking it, for changing his mind so suddenly, for mentally abandoning his sons, but he found himself hoping in that moment, wrapped in Thranduil’s arms, that his present never ended. 

_XXX_

Two more months passed them by. 

Harry’s moods changed from maudlin to content with every other day. Thranduil tried to understand Harry’s reluctance to stay, but couldn’t really, though he took pleasure in the days that Harry was happy to be with him, happy with his new life and his new friends (of which he had made many out of the Elves of Mirkwood). 

Legolas he treated almost like a son by this point, mothering him and flushing with embarrassment as he realised what he was doing, apologising to the ancient being for treating him like a child. Legolas for his part enjoyed the attention. He had been fairly young, by Elven standards, when his mother had died, and though his father had tried his best the elder Elf had already been so detached from the world, so heartbroken, that sometimes he couldn’t bear to look at his son. He had loved him, undoubtedly, but there had been days when Thranduil couldn’t stand to be in the same room as the young boy-Elf, so to have Harry there now, making sure Legolas brushed his hair before going out, or brushed his teeth before bed, or ate enough throughout the day (even appearing in the middle of his patrol with a picnic that Harry would force Legolas to eat as his comrades laughed at his expense) was something that the Elven-Prince cherished. Thranduil had been pleased by the development as well, so much so that he had allowed Legolas to escort Harry to Lake-Town when the Wizard had started to feel caged again. There was no jealousy to be had, and there was no fear that Legolas would allow Harry to leave them, for he was as much Legolas’ family now as he was Thranduil’s mate, and vice versa. So though Harry had left two children behind, he had gained another, more unorthodox, son. 

It was as Harry was in Lake-Town that Thranduil set about preparing for the forthcoming festival. The raven that had knocked Harry from the tree had continued to remain in Mirkwood, never flying away from the forest for more than a day at a time, and only then to travel to the towns of men and Dwarves in the area and bring back news that was never really news at all. The Elven-king sat upon his throne, as _others_ prepared for the festival, and he watched them with the raven perched upon his shoulder, its beak occasionally pulling berries from the crown he wore. 

“Stop that,” the King scolded. The raven did not respond, for he never spoke to anyone other than Harry. 

It was a shame, truly, for if Harry had been there the raven would have warned him about the party of thirteen Dwarves and one lone Hobbit that made their way slowly but surely through the woods straight towards them, half-mad from hunger and from fear. But since Harry wasn’t there, the raven kept his silence, stealing the occasional berry and croaking angrily at the King’s hand whenever it swatted him away from the crown. The preparations continued, and the party started without Harry or Legolas that time, and Thranduil stayed in his throne as he always did on the night before the festival, until the early hours when everyone began to exhaustedly make their way to their beds. This night, Thranduil returned home alone. Or mostly alone, for the raven followed him, its eyes beady and dark, and they stared at the King as he slept, waiting for the Wizard to return.

_XXX_

Harry hadn't planned to stay gone for so long. He and Legolas had left in the very early hours of the morning on horseback, the Mearas speeding the journey up from two days walking to five hours riding.1 The creatures were exhausted by the time Legolas and Harry arrived in Lake-Town, but Harry was happy to be kept so busy for the day: riding for five hours each way and sleeping for eight during the night didn't leave him much time left to worry over the date. 

Today marked the six month anniversary of Harry's arrival in Middle Earth. 

By the time the pre-celebrations began that night, Harry's deal with Thranduil would have come to an end, and he could no longer hope for any help from the Elves in escaping Mirkwood. The King must have been feeling particularly merciful that morning, for he had sent a servant (instructed the night before) to wake Harry three hours earlier than Thranduil would have usually brought him breakfast, fully equipped with an outfit and supplies for the journey. Legolas had met him at the stables, already seated upon his own beast, his riding leather worn from use but kept clean and in good condition. They had been met by the Master of Lake-Town, offered a room in his own home in which to store their gear as they took in the town, shopped and ate and made merry, until a storm came down from the Lonely Mountain with such force and suddenness that for a moment the people of Esgaroth feared that another dragon had come. 

They could not travel home that night, trapped as they were by the wind and rain and the hurricane that battered at the walls, doors, and windows of each building that it passed. The horses screamed with fright from the stables, and the pigs and cattle that the farmers kept went wild trying to escape their pens. Dark clouds disappeared into fluffy white the further away he looked, until the skies above Mirkwood were filled with nothing but sunshine and brown, blowing leaves. There were ravens too, huge big ones, the size of cats, that waited, perched on the topmost branches, until the storm would pass so that they could fly back towards the Grey Mountains. 

Harry and Legolas found themselves shunted from one house to another after the Master claimed that he didn't feel well enough for them to stay and didn't want them to catch anything, it probably didn't help that he had been drinking all day and was feeling rather hungover. The cure, as Ron had once insisted, was to keep drinking, and that was what the Master did as Albert2 shooed the two visitors from the house. Legolas wasn't too worried about staying out in the rain, as Elves hardly got sick from something so innocuous, but he didn't know so much about Wizards and would never dare to risk it. So despite Harry offering to use magic to keep them warm and dry, Legolas set about knocking on the door to every house they walked passed, until eventually one opened up. 

A teenage girl peered at them curiously from the gap between the door and the frame, and when she caught sight of Legolas' ears she gasped. Behind her, a hand shot out to grip the edge of the door, almost taking it off the hinges in his haste to open it wider. A slightly older boy stood behind her, his mouth agape in awe.3

"You're an Elf!" He said, grinning widely. 

"I am," Legolas replied, bowing slightly at the waist. "Well met, young master."

"I'm Bain," he informed the Elf, offering a quick, messy bow of his own. The girl attempted to curtsey, but never bothered to lower her eyes, instead keeping them firmly and suspiciously on her two guests. "This is Sigrid. Da told her to mind the house, but don't mind her, come on in!" He pushed his elder sister out of the way, waving the two inside hurriedly. 

"I don't think we should without your father's permission," Harry insisted, hesitating in the threshold. 

Legolas shot him an odd look, his eyebrows raised in surprise. As a Prince, he was used to being welcomed anywhere someone knew his face, and as an Elf he was unused to not being welcomed generally. Thranduil and he would never have hesitated to enter a home as if they owned the place once the door had been opened for them, but Harry had been raised by the Dursleys, and one did not enter a house without the permission of the owner (and children were never considered such). 

"Well, then you must have my permission!" A voice boomed from behind them, loud but welcoming, and Harry spun around with a gasp of surprise. "Come on in, master Elf, and..." He trailed off as he caught a good look at Harry. In his fancy Elven clothes and with his fine, youthful features, Harry looked just like one of them, but his ears weren't pointed and he wasn't quite tall enough either. 

"Istari," Harry told the other man softly, offering a self-deprecating shrug when the human glanced from his forehead to his feet and raised his eyebrow in a silent question. "Though I'm told I don't look old enough."

"Ah," the human muttered, as he ushered them further inside of his house, "rebellion." Harry chuckled, but Legolas looked a little confused. "Sorry," the man said after a moment, "but not everyone appreciates my humour. I'm Bard, and these two are my children, so who might you be?"

"I'm Harry, and this is Legolas."

"Prince of the Greenwood?" The young boy's voice called out before Harry could fully finish speaking. "Are you really?"

"I am indeed," Legolas softly told him, offering another quick bow. The amount of times Elves did that in a day really took away from the importance of such a gesture, turning it from a sign of respect towards royalty into a gesture as commonplace as a handshake; now, Thranduil only accepted kneeling from foreign visitors (not that the Mirkwood had many of those) and from the guards who reported to him daily. 

"I'm afraid I don't have much room, but I can put the kids into one bed together and one of you can have the other? But there's also a chair or two spare, you could push them together well enough?" He glanced at Harry then, as the shorter of the two, he'd be more comfortable curled between two armchairs. 

"We can share," the Prince told them firmly. Sigrid blushed brightly, turning her face away with a small smile, but Bain made a loud 'ugh' noise, wrinkling his nose at the thought of a relationship. Legolas grinned at him, remembering being that age and watching his parents kiss and thinking it was the worst thing he had ever been forced to look at. "He is consort to the King," Legolas informed Bard curtly, before turning back to his son and winking, "so there will be no 'uhh' of any kind going on tonight, I'm afraid." The way Legolas said it made it sound less disgusted and more obscene and Harry found himself blushing along with the young woman. 

"Come," Bards voice shook as he fought not to laugh, "I'll show you to Bain's room. You can change into something dry if you have anything? If not I can lend you something." After a quick paused he added, "Your highnesses."

"Your highness," Harry corrected, looking rather flustered from the thought. "Legolas is 'your highness'. I'm just Harry." Bard smiled at him over his shoulder, already halfway down the corridor that led from the kitchen to the stairs. Harry followed dutifully, with Legolas on his heels, doing his best to ignore Legolas' whispered lecture in Sindarin. His Sindarin wasn't very good, even after six months of being forced to learn, but he could make out something like "you will be a King" and "get used to it" and something about "commoners" which Harry glared at him for. 

They dried their clothes in front of the fire, Legolas dressed in his spare clothes and Harry wearing a shirt he had borrowed from Bard (and not much else, much to Legolas' dismay). The children told stories, or sang songs, and occasionally the Elf amongst them joined in, but Bard stayed quiet and contemplative, watching Harry with a look in his eyes that worried the Wizard. The only people that looked at him like that wanted something from him, but even if his life depended on it, Harry couldn't think of anything Bard the Bowman might want. 

In the morning the storm still raged, and so they stayed inside the house and ate at the small kitchen table in the small kitchen, the fireplace cold and barely smoking because they had to ration their coal. When the blue skies over Mirkwood finally made its way towards Escargoth and Legolas deemed it safe enough to travel, Mereth Nuin Giliath had already begun. 

Harry and Legolas didn't bother to stable their Mearas', instead they led the beasts towards the sounds of revelry that filtered through the forests, becoming louder the closer the pair got to the clearing before the hidden palace. They were met at the entrance to the clearing by Thranduil, who must have been informed that they were coming, for he never came to the actual feast-day celebration, nor would he stand to greet just any intruder. There was a scratch down one cheek, stark against his pale cheek and the raven was absent from his shoulder. The King greeted his son first, pulling him into a hug before holding him at arm’s length, eyes tracing his face for signs of pain or weariness. Finding none, Thranduil then turned to his lover. 

"I am sorry," he whispered after a moment of silence, the Elves of the clearing barely daring to breathe as they all stopped what they were doing to watch their King. Today was the day Harry had sworn to stay forever with their King, with them, and each wanted to witness the event, to celebrate it along with their already existing feast of starlight. A pale hand reached out to cup Harry's cheek, thumb brushing softly over Harry's bottom lip. The Wizard turned into the touch, eyes closing as tears welled up and he fought to blink them back. "I do not wish for you to suffer so," the Elf whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Harry's forehead. As kind and sympathetic as he seemed then, he ruined it all a moment later by adding smugly, "though I am glad you cannot leave me."

Harry gave a hoarse laugh. He had come to terms on the journey back from Lake-Town that he would miss the deadline (Hermione had a new baby and it was stupid of him to think she'd have the time to search universes for him); he should have travelled out of Mirkwood himself, gone in search of an Istari, but he hadn't. He had been lazy and grown complacent, and now he was stuck there, but that was his fault not Thranduil's. 

"You did as you promised to do, there's nothing to be sorry for." Harry raised a hand so that he could run his finger along the scratch on Thranduil's cheek, healing it with a whispered spell and a spark of magic. "I don't think I'm in the mood for celebrating though."

The King gave a small nod, trying to look understanding even as he frowned. He wanted to celebrate. It was the first actual feast in centuries that he _wanted_ to attend, but he wanted to attend it with his consort, not alone. "I shall see you later tonight?" The King asked hopefully. He waved his free hand lazily above his head and in the background music began to play anew and voices began to sing. 

"You may see me now," Harry promised, in a voice that turned raspy towards the end. He held out a hand invitingly, waiting until Thranduil had placed his own within Harry's grip before he asked, "distract me? Please?"

The King's silver eyes went wide, and the pupils dilated with lust. Something primal and hungry spread across those pale features, stretching the lips and darkening the eyes, and the teeth seemed sharper as Thranduil bit his bottom lip to keep from moaning aloud. His fingers curled around Harry's own, and ignoring the eyes that followed them, and the blushing face of his son who had overheard, Thranduil led his _fea_ further into the forest. Once they were out of sight, (though he made sure they would not end up surrounded by spiders either), Harry made short work of their clothes, vanishing them with a wave of his wand much to Thranduil's amusement. 

"Are we to walk back naked?" The King asked, as he shoved Harry back to lean against the trunk of a tree. 

"Who said anything about being able to walk?" The Wizard gave him a grin as dark as Thranduil's eyes had gone, full of promise and desire, and the Elven-king felt himself go weak in the knees at the sight of it. It was something to consider, the Elf silently debated, but for now he had promised to distract his mate, and distract him Thranduil would. 

So distracted where they, that neither heard the raven in the tree above them calling out "look! Look!", nor the sound of running footsteps that frantically made their way towards them. It was the voices of the singing Elves that echoed loudly through the forest, rather than the amorous moans of the hidden couple, but the sounds had called forth intruders nonetheless. It was _them_ , the two naked, writhing beings rather than the clothed party of dancing Elves, that were discovered by creatures that stumbled, half-starved and completely overwhelmed by the new darkness within Mirkwood, half-covered by Acromantula webbing, out of the bushes and towards the sound of voices and the prospect of food. At the very back of the group, fingers twisting anxiously around a little gold ring, was a Hobbit. And in his company were twelve very unwelcome Dwarves. 

_XXX_

1 – No idea how long the journey would actually take.  
2 – Pretty sure that is what Bard called him, but maybe I’m wrong?  
3 – In the book, Bard only had two children. 

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Thanks for reading. I think there will be about two or three chapters left of this. Let me know what you think?


	4. Chapter IV

No one seemed to have noticed that I purposely left out one Dwarf at the end of the last chapter. Book-readers, don’t spoil it for anyone else :P

This should have been done sooner, but I am trying to get ahead for Loki month. I’m 3 prompts down, out of 7, so I’m not doing too bad. Enjoy this one anyway! 

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**Words:** 3,357  
 **Chapter 04**   
Admittedly, fucking against a tree wasn't the most comfortable of places to do 'it', but Harry wasn't about to put a stop to things. Instead, he dug his teeth into the meat of Thranduil's shoulder; biting hard enough to taste blood when the Elf gave a particularly accurate thrust that shoved him hard enough against the trunk of the tree that Harry knew he was bleeding. The rest of the time, he'd throw his head back, losing himself in the feeling of fullness and the burn that accompanied the first few moments of being stretched and then later the ache in his lower back, as he crept closer to an end, even as his belly and groin demanded more. 

Harry put thoughts of how much it would hurt to lie flat tomorrow out of his mind, focusing instead on the here and now, on how Thranduil's hands squeezed around his upper thighs, the Elf's strength holding him up easily as Harry clung on with one arm around his neck and the other thrown up above his head to claw at the bark of the tree. Sometimes, he'd bite into his own arm, using the pain to push back his orgasm, not wanting it to end yet; it was too soon, it was still _today_ and until it was _tomorrow_ Harry didn't want to think of anything other than 'faster, harder, more'. The trunk of the tree was rough, bark scraping at his bare back, but Harry hissed lightly as each thrust pushed him back and up against it and as Thranduil's grip pulled him back. 

Pressed flush, chest to chest, the heat of their bodies mingling, the pain didn't seem so important. 

Noises weren't important either. A ward Harry had cast would alert them to any interfering spiders and their weapons were on the ground by their feet. There were plenty of Elves close by (but not too close) that could help if they were attacked, only a shout away. The raven's chatter had grown familiar to Thranduil in the past months, and he ignored its voice, not listening to its words, as it cawed frantically above their heads. He listened instead to the noises Harry made for him. Soft panting breaths against his cheek, low groans for more against the base of his throat, harsh cries, voice rough with desire as he threw his head back, screaming it to the sky; they were what Thranduil listened to. He heard the slap of flesh against flesh, Harry hissing as his back rubbed against the bark, his own growls as he thrust furiously into his mate, but it was Harry who heard the clapping of running feet across uneven ground. 

His eyes narrowed, as both hands moved to hold on to Thranduil's shoulders. He considered stopping, but when nothing came towards them and his ward didn't making his skin burn in warning, Harry pushed the sound from his mind. Maybe it was the sound of his heart beating or his blood rushing through his ears, or perhaps it was Thranduil's pulse, jumping at the base of his throat? 

And then they came stumbling out of the underbrush, a ragged group of web-covered Dwarves. Their clothes were torn, their faces dirty, and a couple of them were only standing because someone else was holding them up. The tallest was at the front, cutting his way out of the trees with an axe in each hand. They grumbled and moaned amongst themselves, something about 'food' and 'hungry' and 'voices, where? Oh, there!' 

They seemed more disorientated than Harry was to see them, but the Dwarves' eyes passed right over the naked couple. Harry should have stopped Thranduil, but he didn't. Instead, he clutched him tighter with arms and legs as the coiling in the base of his belly tightened and then released: he came with a soft cry, humming into the Elven-king's hair which had fallen across his face. Flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes, the colour of molten silver, peeked out through the strands of blonde; a pale mouth opened and snapped shut again a second later, teeth grinding as his own orgasm washed over him. Harry felt him come, and clenched around the other's cock, milking it for all it had. As the King regained his breath, slumping forward so their foreheads were pressed together and they were chest to chest, Harry glanced around him (half obstructed by one pointed ear) to smirk at the group of suddenly staring Dwarves. 

His attention, however, was caught by the lone figure who hovered at the very back of the group. He was shorter than the others, with curly hair and pointed ears, and tiny, child-sized hands that twisted anxiously in front of his stomach twining a gold ring between his little fingers. He looked like a child, but his face was that of an adult, and Harry had never seen the like of him before. 

The Wizard nudged Thranduil aside without a word, merely turning his head to encourage the other to pull away. He leaned around the Elf, green eyes wide and staring straight at the blushing creature. "What are you?"

Thranduil jerked away as if Harry's words had hurt him. Unconcerned by his nakedness, he pulled away and apart from his _fea_ , crouching down to snatch his sword from the ground. The Elven-king held it out before him, threatening despite the condition he had been found in, and he snarled soundlessly as his eyes swept over the Dwarves, as if searching for one in particular. 

Harry ignored them both. Let them have their moment, he decided, far more interested in the flustered man (child? thing?) before him. He bent down for his wand before straightening, moving slowly towards the unwelcomed party. With a nonchalant wave of his wand he had re-dressed himself and Thranduil, calling their clothes back from wherever he had sent them earlier. "Was that rude?" He asked, half-smiling. "Sorry, but I've never met one of your kind before. Are you half-Goblin?" Harry through of Professor Flitwick, who had been about the same height but far more usual looking. 

"No I most certainly am not!" The creature looked properly scandalized. The tall one still stared hatefully at Thranduil, joined by several of his kin (though the younger ones were more interested in Harry), but for a moment his eyes flickered towards Harry, a frown on his face, before darting back to glare at the intruders. "I am a Baggins of Bag End, and I thank you never to call me a Goblin again! How ill-mannered of you!" He huffed, crossing his arms after tucking the ring away in a pocket of his torn waist coat. 

"But what are you?" Harry asked again, because for the life of him he couldn't guess. 

"He is a halfling," Thranduil answered, voice soft and steady, to match the look of complete calm that had crossed his face once he had walked within arms reach of Harry again. "Guards!" He called, glancing behind the Dwarves as several 'ting' noises reverberated through the forest: the sound of arrows notching against tightly drawn string. 

"What?" Harry laughed as he turned to his lover. "Really? What for?"

"Trespassing," Tauriel answered him as she emerged between two trees. 

The she-Elf had a dagger in one hand and a sword in the other, both aimed at a different Dwarf. Legolas was quick to join her, attached at the hips as they were, and then several more Elves appeared. Each was quick to round up a Dwarf, though each looked at the Hobbit in confusion, especially after he puffed out his chest and muttered at the ground, "I am not half of anything, thank you kindly. I am a Hobbit, though not as much of a respectable one as I used to be!" 

"Trespassing?" Harry glanced between the Dwarves and the scattered Elves, eyes wide. "Trespassing? I thought you said Istari come through here sometimes? And the men from Lake-Town? And other Elves?" 

Legolas and Thranduil shared a look, one that Harry had fortunately (for their sakes) missed as he grew louder in his questioning. Each Elf wanted Harry to stay, and neither was above telling the odd white lie to make it happen, and so close to the six-months agreed expiring, neither were eager to tell Harry about the Dwarf in their dungeon who had claimed to be travelling with an Istari. Not just any Istari, but Gandalf the Grey, second greatest Wizard in Middle Earth. It was only one day: what magic could Gandalf have conjured in one day to send Harry home, especially since Gandalf hadn't actually been there? And Gandalf wasn't with the party now either, Thranduil had earlier noted with relief, tension quickly melting from his shoulders the longer the Wizard stayed unseen. 

"Of course they do," Thranduil agreed diplomatically, choosing only to half-address the issue. "But not Dwarves."

"That's ridiculous. What if I had said I didn't want to stay with you because you were an Elf, huh? That I'd rather have stayed in Lake-Town or I don't know anywhere else because I didn't like pointy ears? I'd sound stupid and petty, that's what. Just like you sound now!" He would have chastised the King in Sindarin if Harry had known enough of it to form a paragraph, but as it was he was forced to use Westron. The Dwarves gaped, some of them even stumbled about in surprise, and the Hobbit looked horribly scandalized. The Elves were almost used to Harry calling each of them out whenever they did something he didn't agree with, but never before had he so publicly scolded their King. Legolas on the other hand was laughing. 

Thranduil thought about it, eyebrows furrowed and you could almost see the wheels turning in his head. What was the likelihood that these ones knew the one he had arrested? And if they did, of these Dwarves actually knowing that there was another of their company in his dungeons? Or of Harry going to search for him? What harm could it do now, now that it was too late for Harry to take back his promise and without the Istari there to help him at any rate? It could only make Thranduil look merciful and kind, wise and accepting; all traits that Harry found pleasing in his lover whenever the King deigned to display them. 

So he nodded his head, a deferential tilt towards Harry that had the Wizard's cheeks flushing at the giggles the Elves couldn't suppress. The Dwarves tried to shift closer together, bumping into their Elven guards at each attempt, until with a soft command in Sindarin the Elves stepped away silently. They disappeared back into the forest, all but Tauriel and Legolas, to re-join the others still singing in the clearing. When they were no longer surrounded, most of the Dwarves relaxed a little: the elder ones only looked even more suspicious. 

"Follow me," Thranduil commanded. His voice was like silk, soft and smooth, but there was an undercurrent to it that the Dwarves didn't want to test. So, like when Lord Elrond had offered them food, the company followed. 

Harry reached out to link his arm with Thranduil's, no longer needing to be asked, or told, or motioned. It was habit now, that when the King walked his Consort walked with him. It was comfortable too, the warmth against his side, Thranduil's other hand enclosed over his own, pressing it against the curve of the Elf's elbow; it was secure. It was probably stupid but it made Harry feel wanted and welcome, and not at all un-manned like he had thought it might. Legolas walked behind them, to the left of his father, and occasionally he glanced back at Tauriel who had taken up the position of rear-guard. Two Dwarves in particular seemed awfully interested in the Silvan Elf, though she looked as equally exasperated as they did awe-struck. The blond one with the braided moustache was less so than the dark haired one, but even he couldn't keep his eyes from widening every time they met hers. 

They wandered the way Harry had once been shown, through the forests and the trees, beneath their willowy branches and climbing vines and through trunks that had grown tall and bare and twined together above their heads like towering gates. Oak leaves coated the ground like a carpet, crunching beneath their feet as they stepped around and over stones, heels clacking against the cobbles that lay half-buried; the path through Mirkwood. 

Harry could have travelled it in his sleep. His late night wanderings had become common-place in the realm and Thranduil had almost grown used to the idea that Harry wasn't trying to _escape_ Mirkwood, but rather discover more of it. He still sent Noruinivon though, and as Harry's personal guard the Elf couldn't complain about the duty; it was far better than guarding angry Dwarves in the dungeons in any case. But the company of 'guests' had never come this way before, having only travelled as far as the clearing and before that, from the looks of them, into an Acromantula's nest. They were fortunate not to have been eaten, though they were worse for wear, and they were more fortunate still not to have been run through by the guards _before_ coming across the King or his, far more compassionate, soulmate. 

Gasps of awe were hard to smother, despite the sour looks worn by Dwarves who would rather remain unimpressed. The Hobbit, however, made no attempt to seem displeased. He glanced above his head with wide eyes, enraptured by the trees that had been bleached white by the sun (before the darkness came down from the north), the leaves and branches like vines and ivy curling up its trunk rather than hanging out over them, like intricately carved staffs. He laughed as butterflies landed upon his nose and then fluttered away, more and more of them the closer they came to the hidden palace's entrance. Harry watched him with a smile, eyes sad as he thought of the same expression on James' face the first time Harry had shown his baby Prongs. 

"He seems nice," Harry murmured. 

Thranduil and Legolas glanced over their shoulders at the Hobbit. "they're supposed to be very well mannered, but also not known for travelling. I wonder why he's here?" Legolas asked, eyes bright with curiosity. For all of his years, he was as much of a child to the Elves as James was to Harry. Tauriel was only a little older, and even she looked curious, listening to the Dwarves as they talked amongst themselves to discover what she could. Mostly, they spoke of how hungry they were. 

They led the party along pathways and down stairways carved from the roots of great trees, and hardened earth and stone beneath the forest floor that made platforms and levels of the palace. When at last they stopped before Thranduil's throne, red satin and velvet cloths draped across the seat and over the back for comfort, and effect for it made the great antler's that decorated it look all the more impressive, Legolas and Tauriel offered short bows, though the she-Elf then dropped to one knee, her hand on Kili's shoulder to encourage him to do the same. Thranduil sprawled across his throne, one leg bent at the knee and kicked across the other so that he could rest an elbow upon it, while the other casually lay over the arm rest. Harry handed him his oaken staff, and Thranduil held it across his lap, waiting until each Dwarf was on his knees before him before he spoke. 

"Welcome," he told them, voice echoing loudly throughout his throne room. The guards that had waited behind raised their heads, turning as one to stare at the Dwarves from behind their face-plates and helmets. He continued, with a sly smile on his lips, "to the halls of the Woodland King." 

_XXX_

Beneath the halls of the Woodland Realm there was a dungeon. In that dungeon, currently resided on Dwarf by the name of Thorin Oakenshield. It was his party and his kin that were currently being shown to the dining hall, forgoing a bath or rest in favour of the food and drink each of them so desperately desired. 

It was Thorin and his company who had been travelling with Gandalf the Grey, and it was this same company who had been left behind at the edges of Mirkwood by Gandalf (who had suddenly found himself needing to be elsewhere). Thorin had, unfortunately, been separated from the others after Bilbo had freed them all from the spider webbing, lost in the confusion of the battle. He had stumbled, half-blind in the darkness, and so, so hungry he thought he could actually taste food in his mouth, chewing on the ends of his hair and the beads just for something (anything at all) to eat. Thorin had stumbled into a party of Elves, out hunting spiders or Dwarves: they didn't discriminate when it came to trespassers in their woods. They had brought him to their King, fed him lembas bread as he waited and quenched his terrible thirst with their own water-skins. 

And then Thorin Oakenshield laid eyes upon the great Elven-king. The very same one who had turned his back, and his army, on Thorin's people so long ago, who had abandoned them in their time of need, and who had helped the surviving men of Dale rebuild but had ignored the plight of the Dwarves of Erebor for a century afterwards. 

His anger couldn't be tamed by his full stomach. The thirst that no longer plagued him was replaced by a burning fury in his belly and this itching in his throat that made him want to scream and scream until he was hoarse. So, scream he did. He vented his fury on the placid King, who watched with a pale face and one eyebrow raised in amusement, and when Thorin was done, when he was suddenly out of verbal anger, (though always still angry) and had sunk to his knees in defeat, Thranduil waved him away.

"To where my King?" One Elf had asked softly, even as he took hold of Thorin's upper right arm with a grip tight enough to leave marks. 

"The bathing rooms," Thranduil had responded, with another negligent wave of his hand, "and feed him while you're at it."

It was then that Thorin had damned himself, by cursing the Wizard who had led him into this mess in the first place. With a mutter of "when I get my hands on Gandalf" followed by grumbles in Khazadul that the Elves could not understand, Thorin's destination changed from the bathing rooms to the dungeons. 

As he was dragged from the halls, protesting loudly, demanding his freedom, and cursing the Elves to Mandros and back and Thranduil in particular, he heard the King whisper, "Do not let Harry see him."

Who Harry was, Thorin didn't know and he hadn't seen anyone other than the same group of Elves that had dragged him there in the first place, but he was very interested in meeting him. Whoever Harry was, if Thranduil didn't want them to meet, then it would obviously benefit Thorin for such a meeting to occur. 

It had only been a day and a night since he had been imprisoned. He kept quiet, ate what he was given for he would need his strength to break free and continue on through Mirkwood in search of his kin, and neatened his braids for that was a matter of pride, which Durins had mountains of (no pun intended, for he actually had no mountain to speak of yet). But on that second night, (perhaps he was going crazy already, perhaps the spiders had poisoned him and he was hallucinating.... perhaps he was dead and about to greet his brothers in Mahal's halls?) Thorin would have bet the treasury of Erebor that he could hear Dwarves singing of his homeland above his head, in the halls of the Woodland King.

_XXX_

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This was horribly hard to write. I don’t even know why, but if it’s shit don’t tell me? Also, yeah, I lied. This chapter was shorter than I thought it would be so there’ll be more chapters than I thought…


	5. Chapter 05

I’m sorry that is has been so long, but I was taking part in Loki month (which involved posting a new story, for me anyway as I don’t draw, every four days; 7 times throughout February). But since that is over and done with now, I’m free to work on other stories, mainly this one. BUT! As I’m out of the country from tomorrow until the second week of March, I’m posting a short interlude-esque chapter to tide you over. 

Enjoy. 

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**Words:** 3,172  
 **Chapter 05**   
Harry could still remember the first time he ate at the Burrow. It had been the morning Ron and the twins had kidnapped him from his uncle's house using their dad's flying car. Harry had been tired, but excited, and slightly terrified at the sight of Molly Weasley striding angrily across the yard towards them. She hadn't shouted at him, or hit him, but welcomed him to her house and her table and treated him like one of her own. She had piled food up onto his plate until Harry was wobbling as he carried it, afraid to tilt the plate even the slightest in case it all came down the side like an avalanche, but he had stuffed himself until he was full, forkful after forkful crammed into his mouth as he talked around bites. The others did the same, chucking food at one another when they were full (and their parents let them, despite how poor they were and how hard it must have been to afford enough food to feed so many children, because it was fun, and parents were happy when their children were). 

Harry could still remember it all; closing his eyes he could hear the twins gleeful cheering as they caught Ron right in the face with two spoonful’s of cream, he could see Ginny blushing red and putting her elbow in her porridge as she was caught staring at Harry, he remembered Mr Weasley questioning him about rubber ducks and electricity, as Percy bragged about being Head Boy. He remembered Molly's hugs, and Ron's grin, and how right it felt to be there. How alive they all were.

How happy they had been. 

Harry was almost as happy now as he had been then. They weren’t the Weasleys, and they could never replace them in Harry’s mind or heart, but eating with twelve Dwarves was almost the same as eating at the Burrow. The Hobbit looked horrified, but resigned obviously having experienced this before, and the Elven guards looked murderous, the servants scandalised, and Thranduil’s brow had creased the way it did whenever he had a headache though his face was perfectly composed. Harry, though, was laughing; each time he was hit by flying food he’d chuckle, eyes wide and head back as he laughed, and then he’d throw some right back at the offending Dwarf. It was his laughter that saved the Dwarves from being dragged straight to the dungeon and locked up out of Thranduil’s sight. 

It was a slightly more formal arrangement than what the Dwarves had experienced in Lord Elrond's home. Though there was a communal dining hall, Thranduil had invited his guests to eat in the royal chambers, and because there were more than just family present he had invited his guards too. He sat at the head of the table, in a chair that was a miniature version of his throne with a servant beside him at all times to keep his wine glass topped up. Harry was to his right and Legolas to his left, both of them wearing the clothes they had arrived from Lake-Town in, while Thranduil had chosen to hold the meal so that he could change out of the outfit he had worn to the festival and into something far more formal. He looked unapproachable now, in his high necked, stiff collared tunic and the cloak he wore over the top that trailed along the ground when he walked, in his leather breaches instead of leggings and the knee high boots that were armour plated. He wore gauntlets over the sleeves of the tunic, and a belt around his waist that held a sword that tapped against the arm of the chair when he shifted and made the Dwarves flinch. His crown was heavy with berries, and even now a servant stood behind the King tying red flowers to the vines. 

Dwalin sat directly opposite Thranduil, taking the seat that should have been Thorin's. Balin was to his left, with Ori, Nori and Dori beside him in that order. Kili and Fili were on Dwalin's right, beside Bombur, Bofur and Bifur. Bilbo was next to Harry and Dori, while Oin and Gloin took the remaining seats between Legolas and Bifur. The servants moved around the room when something needed re-filling or removing, but for the most part they stayed against the walls (with the exception of Thranduil's personal valet who was pouring more wine tonight than he had all week). The guards waited one in each corner of the room and two more on either side of the doors, of which there were two (one for the servants and one for the royal family). 

Everyone who was not an Elf was practically unrecognizable for the amount of food that covered their faces; even Harry had some sort of sauce dripping into his eyes, and basil in his hair, after Kili threw a full platter of salad across the table. Though uncomforted by the guards and by Thorin's disappearance, food and drink were apparently enough to put the Dwarves back into good spirits. 

Bilbo, however, remained morose. He didn't touch his wine or his desert, and he didn't throw any food (which was probably just the good Hobbit breeding at work) but he hardly ate any of it either. He stuck to soup, insisting that his stomach had shrunk too much to stomach too much more, with a mouthful of lembas that Harry had offered him off of his own plate once they realised the Dwarves were capable of stomaching far more of it than was safe at one time. His right hand kept straying to his pocket, petting it like he was checking that something was still within; it made Harry's eyes narrow, because he had done the same thing once, fingers caressing the locket around his throat possessively every time Hermione insisted it were time to swap carriers. 

"What is it?" Harry asked quietly, not wanting to attract the attention of the Dwarves. He threw up a quick shield, making sure it kept Thranduil covered too (because his temper, Harry had learnt, was worse than Ron's), as two of the Dwarves climbed up on to the table and started dancing a jig as the others sang, clapping to encourage them. "In your pocket, what is it?"

"Nothing!" His voice was shrill, the sound of someone with something to hide, and Harry tilted his head to one side curiously. 

He could just take it, the Wizard knew, with a snap of his fingers the item would be in his pocket and not the Hobbits, but Harry wasn't sure if he should have it either. So instead he whispered, "It's dangerous, you know. I can guess what it is, and it reeks of dark magic. You should get rid of it in my opinion."

"I was going to ask Gandalf about it," Bilbo admitted softly. His fingers were inside of his pocket now, undoubtedly twirling the ring around, subconsciously attempting to slip it on. "But he had to leave just as we got to the forest, and well, the others talk about gold alot and I don't think I want them to have it."

"It's precious to you, isn't it?" Harry knew when the Hobbit nodded that he was right. It wasn't the same thing he had sensed from Dol Goldur, for that thing had been infinitely more powerful, but this was a part of it: the odd humming that sounded when Bilbo was standing apart from the others, alone enough that Harry's magic could sense him without interference; the almost irresistible urge he had to reach out and touch the Hobbit, to make sure he was there; the way he couldn't keep his eyes from Bilbo, much to Thranduil's displeasure (it probably had contributed to the Elven-king's headache, if Harry were honest about it); and that horrible, familiar churning in the pit of his stomach that he'd felt so many times before when something bad was about to happen, the ache in his chest when a Horcrux touched him, and the pain in his head, searing and sharp, like his eyeballs were about to burst whenever Voldemort drew near.

Even the fact that Harry realised he didn't know who Gandalf was, wanted to know why he would just leave them at Mirkwood's boarders, but he was more interested in the Ring was testament to how much power it had over them. At his side, Thranduil tensed at the mention of the Wizard's name, but relaxed again when Harry went on whispering about something else. He did not care to listen, he did not care to know honestly; he just wanted the Dwarves gone from his Kingdom before they told Harry something they shouldn't, and it was for that reason Thranduil thought nothing of why they had come. Thorin Oakenshield was in his dungeons, but how likely was it that these Dwarves had travelled with him, miners and toy makers and scholars the lot of them with only one warrior to boast of? (They had more than one warrior, but age had diminished the physical appearance of some and some were not yet old enough to be considered adept enough to send to war, and others had learnt out of necessity only, but Thranduil did not ask about that either). 

Dinner was a mess. It ended with Bilbo rudely refusing to talk further with Harry, because the Ring was _his_ and the other had no business asking to see it, and with Kili falling off of the table and landing on top of Legolas, both of them flushing unattractive shades of red and Bofur kicking over Thranduil's wine by accident while Nori attempted to convince the Elven valet, Tarile, to dance, dropping and smashing the rest of the flagon. 

"I think it is time you rested." The King's voice was soft, like silk but underlaced with steel, and even the drunkest of the guests understood that it was time to go. 

Oron led them from the hall and towards the guest chambers in silence. The Dwarves followed obediently, heads bowed and feet scuffling as they made their way through the corridors. Once out of sight, they were out of mind, and Thranduil leaned forward to pour himself a glass of water, allowing Tarile to continue his attempt at mopping spilt wine from the floor. Harry waved the mess away with a flick of his wand, having pulled it out of his robe pocket (all of which had been stitched up specially for Harry so that he could carry the wand with him the way some of the Elves carried swords). 

“That was fun!” Harry was grinning again, and the sight of it made Legolas chuckle and Thranduil roll his eyes.

“The sooner they leave the better,” the King muttered, stabbing viciously at a cut of veal with his knife. He chewed it angrily, scowling, but Harry laughed again softly and leant over to press a kiss to Thranduil’s cheek. 

“They can’t be that bad. School feasts were far worse than that!” 

“He has a point, Ada,” Legolas said agreeably as he picked at a bread roll. “Informal dining with the twins was always rather troublesome too.” He turned to Harry and added, “Lord Elrond’s eldest sons, lovely Elves. They’re almost the same age as me so we spent a lot of time together when I was growing up and they’re rangers so I trained with them too before I joined Mirkwood’s guard, but they are rather a handful when their Ada isn’t keeping an eye on them!” 

“True as that may be, min hên, I would rather not be witness to the sight of their food in the midst of travelling from plate to stomach.” The Elven-king scoffed disdainfully, as he spoke, lip curling like he had smelt something horrible. He looked a little like Narcissa Malfoy the time Harry had met her at the Quidditch World Cup, and he smiled at the likeness, because Narcissa had been as devoted and loving a parent as Thranduil was (as Harry hoped he’d have the chance to be). 

“Oh hush you,” Harry teased, nudging Thranduil’s arm with his elbow and making him spill water onto his tunic, “you’ve seen worse sights I’m sure.” 

Thranduil slowly set his cup back down, eyebrows raised as he turned to face his _fea_. His hands darted out, catching both of Harry's wrists before he could pull away and Thranduil pulled until Harry had to lie half-across the table towards him to ease the strain on his shoulders. "You wet my clothing," the King chided. The servants had tensed, familiar with their King's ill temper, but Legolas only smiled softly, still ashamed of his father's attempts at flirting. 

"Suppose you'll have to take it off then, huh?" Harry kept his wrists in Thranduil's grasp as he pushed himself onto the table, crawling across it and knocking what little cutlery had survived the Dwarves dancing attempts onto the floor to join their broken fellows. He shuffled forward, twisting until his legs could hang over the edge of the table, spread on either side of Thranduil. The King shoved his throne backwards without rising from it, making it scrape across the ground, but it gave Harry enough room to slip from the table to his lover's lap. 

Legolas snorted at the look upon his father's face: wide-eyed and awed, flushed with arousal and softened by love. It was wonderful to witness, but again there was only so much of it Legolas was willing to witness. "I will take my leave," the youngest Elf murmured, completely ignored by the amorous couple who had moved on from worrying over a wet tunic to worrying the flesh of each others' throats. "Good night to you both."

The servants followed Legolas from the room. They each knew from experience that it was better to leave without being dismissed and risk their King being angered by their lack of attention than to wait until Thranduil noticed that they were still there, supposedly (and sometimes actually) watching the King's consort writhing beneath him. The fit he had thrown the first (and only) two times it had happened was now something of a legend amongst the staff of Thranduil's palace; they told their friends and their families and each of them had, as was the way, told someone else, so now practically everyone in the Kingdom knew about it. But, because rumours had a habit of growing more and more wild as they spread, now instead of hearing that they had been caught having sex in the bathing rooms by two servants who had been too afraid to leave without being dismissed, Legolas had been told by his own valet that Thranduil had imprisoned two servant she-Elves simply because they had commented on how handsome Harry looked on that particular day. 

These servants had obviously heard similar, or perhaps crazier, stories, because they walked swiftly from the room on Legolas' heels with their eyes closed and their hands over their ears lest they hear anything they shouldn't. Even the guards left, waiting a little further down the corridor instead of standing by the doors, because they were afraid to overhear anything they shouldn't too. The Elven-king was known to be so possessive of his _fea_ , as was his right to be, that even Legolas the almost-step-son fled the area to leave the couple alone. 

Harry and Thranduil hardly noticed them leave; one of them waved nonchalantly at Legolas' back after his quiet dismissal of himself, but said nothing in reply. They simply went back to their kissing, hands fumbling at fastenings on clothing and tugging and shoving to reach the skin hidden beneath. The servants who were supposed to clean thought better of it as they walked down the hallway and saw the guards standing too far from the door, but not far enough away to miss hearing Harry's cries of, "harder, yes please harder!" Coincidentally, they all remembered that they were supposed to be caring for the Dwarves needs. 

The Dwarves were too far away to hear anything, but were rather taken by surprise at the sudden influx of Elves in the guests halls, all willing and happy in fact to help them with anything they needed. More food was brought, and clothing was mended and wounds were cleaned and stitched. Through it all, Bilbo sat with his back to the wall and one hand in his pocket as he twisted the ring through his fingers like he was doing a coin trick. He thought on Harry's words and Gandalf's concerns and wondered if they could both be wrong at once: should he get rid of the ring? He didn't want to, it was precious to him and he had killed Orcs and Spiders for it so he had earned it. But what if it was dangerous? 

"Oh I wish Gandalf was here!" Bilbo muttered to himself sadly. Oron's eyes narrowed at the sound of the Wizard's name, but by the time he had excused himself from the oldest of the Dwarrows to interrogate the Hobbit, Bilbo had moved himself to a bedroom and closed the door. 

In the dungeons beneath the woodland realm, Thorin ate his meal in silence, hidden by the thick oak door that trapped him in his cell and subsequently forgotten about by the guards who patrolled in pairs. They spoke of their King and his lover, the mysterious Harry who wasn't supposed to meet Thorin, and unfortunately for Thorin's gag reflex they spoke often about Thranduil's sexual exploits, including a time he gutted on of his guards for looking at Harry's rear (it was only one of those wild rumours, but Thorin wasn't to know that). 

In Dul Guldor, Gandalf fought for his life against the growing forces of darkness that amassed in Sauron's name. 

In London, worlds away from the approaching war in Middle Earth, Hermione Granger bent down to pick up the discarded Palantir, last seen when Ron shoved Harry backwards towards the Veil. The Palantir had been one of two, both discovered and brought into the Unspeakable department together. One was missing. The Veil had never whispered to Hermione, but at her side Luna Lovegood tilted her head curiously and smiled. "He has all the time in the worlds, Mione," the blond Witch said softly, clapping her hands once in front of her chest before reaching out to take the orb (that swirled and glowed with mists of red and black and white like a nebula) from her friend. "Just give him some time."

Thranduil and Harry fucked across the dining table of the royal chambers, completely unaware of any of this. They knew themselves and each other, the here and now, the taste and feel of skin and seed and the rush of passion, and Harry's head finally admitted what his heart already knew: that he loved Thranduil Orophorion. At that moment, Harry realised he would happily remain with Thranduil forever. 

**The End**

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Hope you’re all still with me? :D


	6. Part VI

Just to clarify: No, this story is no where near over (because my muse keeps running away with it), but I was writing it in work and put “the end” and forgot to change it before I posted it. Sorry! 

Also, this would have been up so much sooner (since most of it was done Tuesday gone) but the much awaited confrontation between Harry and Thranduil was HARD to write! 

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**Words:** 5,568  
 **Chapter 06**   
The Dwarves dwelt in Thranduil's halls for little under a month before everything went to shit, to put it mildly. Their manners had always been deplorable and their behaviour unacceptable, they were rude and crass and horrid to everyone in Mirkwood that wasn't Harry, but Thranduil did his best to ignore their disrespect. He told himself it was to be expected, that they were mostly young enough to have been raised in exile (in the wilderness or on the road or at whatever hovel each called his home for a time) rather than as members of the Court and Kingdom of Erebor (with the exception of three or four of them, Thranduil couldn't tell their ages for sure, but they were older than the others); they were little more than beasts, without breeding or standards, and even the Hobbit seemed appalled by their behaviour at times. But they made Harry laugh, and they were kind to Harry: respectful and friendly, but not overly so. There was no inappropriate touching, none sat in his lap the way they tried to do with each other, nor tried to pet his hair or kiss his cheeks; the younger ones instead seemed fond of curling up by his feet and asking for stories of magic and dragons that didn't destroy lives and armies that won battles waged by adults and fought by children (Harry being one of them). 

But there was only so much Thranduil could ignore, and it was when the Dwarves started attacking the Elves who had been charged with caring for them, drunk on too much wine and bored by too little excitement, that Thranduil finally lost his temper. 

Thranduil had never been an even tempered Elf. Even as a child, he had been liable to fly off the handle at the slightly provocation; something as silly as a servant leaving out the wrong coloured under tunic would have had him refusing to dress at all, throwing his clothing from the windows and into the corridors and shouting his displeasure to the realm until his Naneth calmed him down. As he had grown, his reactions had grown more violent, and after the war in Dorioth and in the North, and the War of Wrath his temper had shortened still. 

That's not to say that Thranduil wasn't capable of calmness or kindness, for he was. He loved his wife and son fiercely, was loyal to his wife though she was not his mate, was obedient to his Ada before the King's untimely death, and compassionate towards his mother. He was kind to his servants and patient with the Elflings of his home (while there had been some), as they ran up to him during his coronation, making a game out of being the bravest and fastest, trying to touch his robes before the guards could chase them back. He was wary of strangers, after the death of his wife, after her attack at the hands of those who had been welcomed guests in his halls, and cautious of those 'friends' who lived elsewhere. He was arrogant, prideful, beautiful and intelligent. He was not a healer, but a warrior, and he fought with bravery and honour, defended his kinsmen and put those who needed it out of their misery. He was a good King, a just King, but he was an ill-tempered one nonetheless. 

His subjects were not surprised by his behaviour, but rather that he lasted a full month before ordering the arrest of the Dwarves. The Hobbit escaped with the use of his Ring, turning himself invisible and fleeing into the winding corridors of the palace beneath the woodland realm. Harry watched him go in silence, jaw still throbbing from the punch that had knocked him to the floor. 

None could claim to be shocked that Thranduil had reacted so strongly to such an act, for he was ever defensive of his family, and Harry was his mate and consort (though they had yet to wed), but none but those who had been there knew that it was Thranduil's fist that had sent the Wizard to the ground with a cry. It was an accident on his own part, yes, but the sight of the man crouched on the ground, with a hand held to his jaw had incensed the Elven-king, because it would not have happened in the first place if the Dwarf nephew of Thorin Oakenshield had not taken a swing at him first!

It had happened suddenly, and when asked later by those desperate to gossip, none could remember how. It had just happened. 

One moment, Kili and Fili were dancing upon the table, kicking pottery and food all over the place. The next Kili was sprawled on top of Thranduil, having fallen off of the table and knocked the King to the floor with him. Thranduil had shoved him aside, snarling and scowling, and Fili had leapt forward to protect his brother from the ire of the Elven-king.   
His hand had come up, and Thranduil had knocked it away with a hiss. But he had hit back too hard, and Fili went sprawling, and Thranduil's arm carried on with its momentum, moving back over his shoulder to punch another. Harry, who had stood and moved to his lover's side to try and calm him down, took the hit in the jaw. It wasn't the worst he'd ever had, but it was no delicate school yard tap either, and his legs gave out under him in surprise. He had cried out, more from shock than pain, and he sat on the floor cupping his jaw while the Dwarves immediately began arguing amongst themselves, scrabbling and squawking, all trying to blame the Elves for setting them up. 

Harry might have been able to salvage things. He might have been able to calm the King with a kiss and a soft touch to the shoulder, arms winding around his waist from behind as he pressed against the Elf. But then Kili had damned them all. 

"Uncle Thorin will have to reward you for that!" He crowed at Fili, laughing loudly at the thought of landing a punch on Thranduil's smug pale face. 

"Uncle _Thorin_?" Thranduil whispered, head cocked to one side like an owl about to swoop down and devour its prey. 

“Kili! Shut up!” Nori whispered. If he could have reached the dwarf, he would have kicked him. 

“Run!” Was Bofur’s poorly thought out suggestion, but the others listened. Dwarves ran towards the doors, splitting up and heading in different directions as guards attempted to catch them. The argument ended with Dwalin throwing an axe at one of the guards who came forward to arrest them, and in Kili foolishly exclaiming that Thranduil would be sorry for "assaulting one of Durin's line!". Having confirmed their relationship to Thorin, they were placed in separate cells at the _other_ end of the dungeons to their leader.

They did not pass Thorin on their way, for he was deep, deep under the Mirkwood. They were kept separate from one another, each to their own cell, though they were all along the same winding corridor. It wriggled through the earth like a snake, winding around bends and under tree roots and through the mountain side that bordered the edge of the kingdom beside the River Running. Kili and Fili were kept apart from the others: they were cell beside cell, but the brothers (nephews of Oakenshield and deserving of a closer guard) were kept in cells with three empty ones between theirs and the next. They others could talk, and bang on the doors and walls and tap out tunes to occupy the others and themselves, but Fili and Kili could barely make out anything that was said. The ceiling there was denser, unlike where Thorin was, solid stone instead of mostly root and earth. 

The Dwarven King had heard them fighting, heard them trying to escape, but could scare believe his ears. It was like the night he heard the songs of his people echoing through the underground caverns, eyes closed to enjoy the sound of it even as he feared he had gone mad. No Dwarf had been guest in the realm long before it had stopped being known as the Greenwood, and Thranduil had no reason to begin inviting them now. 

But he heard the guards talking, heard them complain about Fili attempting to strike the King. They said he had hit Harry as well, the elusive Harry who wanted to come and visit the Dwarves in the dungeon, because he was kind and good and forgiving (and of course because it wasn't Fili at all who had struck him). The guards fell silent when Thorin shifted in his cell, so he tried to sit quietly, hardly daring to breathe so that they would keep talking and he could keep listening. He didn't ask questions for none would be answered, though there were many he wished to ask. 

It was three days later that Bilbo accidentally took a wrong turn and found himself outside of Thorin's cell. 

_XXX_

"That really wasn't necessary," Harry insisted again. It was the beginning to the same conversation that they had had for the past three days. 

Legolas had brought them breakfast in bed, since the servants were rather wary about entering Thranduil's chambers and Thranduil no longer had to invite himself into Harry's to eat. In the month the Dwarves had been there, Harry had been asked repeatedly about his relationship and in passing had mentioned that he slept in his own room. Thranduil had been quick to correct him, calmly stating that just because he had his own room did not mean he resided in it. Harry hadn't said anything to dispute it, and that night found himself being led by the hand to Thranduil's chambers and pulled into Thranduil's bed, and after they had made love neither of them said a word about Harry leaving for his own room. Legolas continued to wait for an invitation to join them for breakfast, sitting on the bed cross-legged and eating off of their laps as they talked, or curled up on the colder mornings before the fireplace as Thranduil fed Harry by hand and Legolas blushed all through his meal. But this morning he had brought the food in lieu of a servant, placed down the tray, and silently left. 

"This is becoming tedious, Harry. Even Legolas tires of your complaints." 

"My complaints?" Harry's mouth dropped open, and his eyes had gone wide. His voice was shrill when he continued, " _my complaints_? You put them in your dungeon! I understand why you would have done it in the heat of the moment, but it's been three days, Thranduil! And you're telling the others that Fili hit me. _You_ hit me, and you shouldn't punish someone else for it." Harry stood up from the bed. He paced the floor as he talked; ignoring the bowl of fruit Thranduil kept trying to hand him. 

"And should I punish myself?" The King asked casually, though his eyebrows had furrowed and his lips had pursed in anger. "How would you like me to go about so?"

"No! No, gods. It was an accident. Accidents happen, for Merlin's sake. I just mean that you shouldn't lie to make them look bad. Just let them leave, Thranduil. They haven't been so bad to deserve imprisonment, have they?"

"They attacked my people."

"They've been punished for that. Three days is enough. They shoved a guard, who can defend himself. They got drunk and threw food at servants. You've thrown wine at them before! They broke some statues, they hunted a deer, big deal!" Harry sighed loudly. He had seen Bilbo and spoken to him, and the Hobbit had mentioned the night before that he had found someone else in a cell. He hadn't told Harry his name, fear for that person outweighing his trust of Harry perhaps, but Bilbo swore it was one of his party and that they had never been invited to Mirkwood, had gone missing in the woods long before they stumbled upon Thranduil and Harry rutting against a tree. “This is about something else, isn’t it?”

Thranduil raised one eyebrow, lips thinning as he watched his mate in silence. 

"I think I know you well enough by now to notice when you start acting strange." Thranduil didn't dispute Harry's claim, but he did nothing to confirm it either. The Wizard sighed loudly, moving to stand directly in front of the Elf. He took the bowl from Thranduil's hands and put it carefully on the bed, before clasping the hands within his own. "This is irrational and foolish and petty, and usually when I tell you that you're behaving like this you listen and you do _something_. But something about these Dwarves has you acting like, I don't even know, Thranduil." Harry wanted to say, guilty, that the Elven-king was behaving as if he had some great secret and it was difficult to keep it from Harry, but he didn't want to think about something like that. He had promised the Elf forever, after all, and to find out that the King was keeping secrets only a month later was too horrible to contemplate. 

But when the Elf's silence continued, Harry bit the bullet and asked, "Who is Thorin?"

Silver eyes narrowed. Thranduil scoffed loudly, turning his face away so that he could glare at the wall; likely pretending it was Thorin himself who stood facing the wrath of the Elven-king. "No one of importance," the Elf admitted softly, though his demure contradicted his words so obviously that Harry felt hurt by his poorly attempted lie. 

"Those Dwarves are in the dungeons because of Thorin. He must be important, somehow."

"He is no one of consequence. He has no throne, despite his title, no gold, nor gems or finery. He is homeless, penniless, _worthless_. Of what interest could he possibly be?" Thranduil's voice was cold and harsh, and Harry flinched at the sound of it. He knew that Thranduil had a temper, knew that the Elf got angry and shouted sometimes, but never at him, but this tone was something else entirely. There was anger in it, yes, but the silent dangerous kind. Instead of an inferno which would rage until it was all burnt out, Thranduil was now more like an avalanche: snow and ice careening down towards you, leaving you with nowhere to run to and no way to escape.

Harry took a step back, cringing in the face of Thranduil's ire. 

"Why do you care?" The Elf continued, voice dropping a tone lower, vowels lengthening until he was drawing out each word, each a breath of angry air instead of part of one whole sentence. There was jealousy in his tone, Harry realised; dark and deep and dangerous, and Harry bit back the groan that wanted to escape because that sort of reaction wouldn't help anything. 

So instead he said, "I don't particularly care, other than the fact that it's the right thing to do. It's cruel to lock them all up forever because one of them pissed you off. What did he even do to you anyway? How long ago? He must have been little more than a child, so it's rather petty of you to hold onto grudges, right? But, me, personally? I don't care about him." He squeezed the hands that he still held between his, fingers curling around Thranduil's clenching fists. "Do you?"

"No," the Elf hissed, glaring at Harry with narrowed, cold eyes. 

"Then let them go." 

_XXX_

Thranduil didn't let the Dwarves go. Two more days later, Bilbo fell asleep the corridor outside of Thorin's cell but woke up tucked between two empty barrels in the wine cellar, just above the secret exit that led to the River Running. He didn't know how he had gotten there, but when he later went back to tell Thorin, Balin stopped him on the way, waving a hand through the bars of his cell door to catch the Hobbits attention (after hearing him whisper ‘hello’ to Bofur). 

"The lad carried you passed us earlier but wouldn't say what was happening. Ye hurt, laddie?" The old Dwarrow asked. Bilbo could hear the concern in his voice, could imagine the frown upon his face and the way his forehead would crease between the eyebrows without needing to see it. 

"He showed me a way to escape," Bilbo admitted softly. Invisible fingers twisted an invisible ring around and around nervously, as he hopped foot to foot, eager to be on his way to tell Thorin the good news. 

That night, Bilbo bullied the Dwarves into the empty barrels: one to each of them, with him left standing awkwardly by as they dropped into the River and floated away. Bilbo had no choice but to jump in after them, unable to swim and terrified of drowning, but the sounds of the waking guards spurred him on. He was so busy trying to keep afloat, or trying to hang on to the rim of Thorin's barrel, or trying to avoid the many arrows loosed by the bows of Orcs that chased them along the banks that Bilbo failed to notice Harry Potter lying along the length of a branch that hung out over the closed gates. With a flick of Harry’s wand, the gates swung open, the portcullis rising, even as the Elves who had literally just closed them began to shout in confusion and fear. 

Bilbo didn't notice him, but Thorin did. Thorin's eyes narrowed, mouth dropping open at the sight of a young Istari, dressed like an Elf but behaving as a friend to the Dwarves of Erebor (Thranduil's own enemies), and at the display of magic (without chanting or flashing lights or wild stick waving the way Gandalf did it) Thorin reach out fearfully to make sure Bilbo was still there. His hand caught Bilbo across the head, fingers curling into his hair for a second, before his barrel bumped into Fili's and Thorin had to use his hands to keep his nephew from over turning. As he brought his hand back up, there was something cupped in the palm of it: round and clear, but swirling inside with purple mist and tiny crackles of lightening, a storm trapped in glass. It was beautiful and Thorin didn't know what it was, but he put it into his coat pocket anyway. 

The company, it seemed, were destined to possess many strange objects that they shouldn't. 

They escaped, and Harry let them, and Tauriel followed in their wake. She claimed she wanted to stop them, but likely she left for the same reason Legolas did; to please Thranduil, who would never send them after the Dwarves, because his policy had always been "out of my Kingdom, out of my mind" and to act otherwise now would prove Harry right. The Elven-king refused to admit that he was being petty, refused still to tell Harry why he had imprisoned the Dwarves instead of simply throwing them out, and he wouldn't talk about Thorin (so Harry wouldn't talk to him). With Legolas gone, there was no one to play mediator in their relationship, and Harry moved back to his own bedroom the same night the Dwarves left. 

Novourion had followed Harry that night, but done nothing to stop him as he aided the escaping prisoners. Yet, it had been his duty to inform his King both of his own failure and of Harry's betrayal. For that was what it was: Harry had aided someone against the direct orders of their King (of Harry's King should they marry, who deserved even now to be _treated_ as his King for Harry was living there) to the detriment of their Kingdom (because now they were down two members of the guard, one of them being the Prince, and Thranduil's temper was once more inflamed, fear of the dragon that was about to be woken driving him to irrationality, to the detriment of all those living under his rule). 

Novourion spent the night in the dungeons, and Harry spent the night arguing with Thranduil through the door to his room, which he had locked, and Thranduil had barred shut at both exits. 

House arrest was not something Harry appreciated. Fred, George and Ron had rescued him from a similar situation once, and each summer he had managed to cause some sort of a fuss if left at the Dursleys, locked up, for too long. But to Thranduil it seemed perfectly reasonable. If Harry wanted to leave him, he would make sure that the Wizard couldn't, and Harry's only interest in the Dwarves could be (not compassion or pity or kindness, for Durin's line deserved none of that) Gandalf. Gandalf's only purpose would be to send Harry back home. Though there was no way for Harry to know that, for Thranduil had kept an eye on his lover whenever the Dwarves spoke the Istari's name, and had his guards eavesdropping when he couldn't, fears were not rational and Thranduil had convinced himself that either the dragon would kill them all or that Harry had found a way to leave him. And he would allow neither to come to pass. 

So Thorin needed to stay locked up. 

If the Dwarves left without Thorin and then Gandalf returned, the Wizard would send them all back to Mirkwood searching for him, and Thranduil would not allow that either. So they all needed to stay imprisoned, only Harry had let them leave, and that _Hobbit_ had stuck his nose in places it wasn't welcomed and his guards had failed to notice the creature was not among his captive companions. Such a little thing to overlook, and yet, the Hobbit had ruined everything. Thranduil did not intend to forgive him for that, though he had forgiven Harry already. It was not the man's fault that he wanted to go home, that he missed his friends and sons, but it hurt to know that Thranduil would never be enough to keep Harry there with him, no matter what the Wizard promised. But perhaps Harry only wanted to return to say goodbye, and then he'd come back to Mirkwood... but it was too great a risk to take. Thranduil Oropherion was not in the habit of gambling when he knew he would not win. 

So Harry needed to stay locked up. At least until the Dwarves were all dead from dragon fire and Gandalf would have better things to concern himself with than Thranduil's _fea_. Smaug, for example, before the Wyrm took it upon himself to raze the rest of Middle-Earth. 

_XXX_

The Dwarves were almost to Erebor by the time Thranduil let Harry out of his room. 

The Wizard was furious, but he was also exhausted. He didn't have the energy to argue anymore, or to shout or scream or demand answers, so he asked once more, tiredly this time, resignedly for he doubted Thranduil would answer him, "Who is Gandalf?" 

Thranduil had insisted he stay away from Gandalf and Thorin both, but never said why, and it was killing Harry not to know because what if they were dangerous and he had sent the others away with Thorin and Gandalf could have been waiting for them! Or, what if Gandalf was the darkness that he could feel in Dol Guldor, the shadow that hung over the land and crawled its way like a mist of spiders, scuttling and shuddering, deep into the Greenwood, poisoning the earth? If anything happened to the Dwarves and Bilbo it would be Harry's fault, and while he worried over their fates at the hands of the two people Thranduil didn't want him to meet, the Elven-king finally answered him, content in his belief that enough time had passed for them to have failed, and died, in their quest to reclaim the Lonely Mountain. 

"Gandalf is an Istari, who travelled with the Dwarves as far as the western boarder of the wood." 

Harry's mouth dropped open. That wasn't something he was expecting to hear; actually, he wasn't expecting any sort of answer, considering how tight-lipped Thranduil had been so far on the matter. 

"Istari?" Harry asked softly, his voice little more than a whisper, and his hands shook so hard he had to fold them across his chest to keep them still. "A Wizard you mean, like me?"

Thranduil offered one shallow nod of his head. He kept silent, jaw clenched and eyes pinned on Harry's face. Green eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when they opened there were tears coating his lashes. 

"He could have sent me home?" 

“He was not with them when they trespassed. Mithrandir would have been long gone by the time any of the Dwarves mentioned his name.” Thranduil looked as if he were about to reach out to hold Harry, whose shoulders had started shaking as he fought not to cry, but Harry hurriedly backed himself up against a wall. Clearly not wanting to be touched, Harry huddled as far as he could get from his lover, watching the Elf with wide, wet eyes. “Thorin was found a day before the others. He threatened me, threatened Mithrandir also, and I imprisoned him because this is my Kingdom and I may do as I please within it.”

“Is that so?” Harry whispered. “So it had nothing to do with the fact that Gandalf might still have been around when you found Thorin?”

“He was not. The guards searched and could find no trace of him once the abandoned fortress came into sight. Regardless, if he had been found and brought back you would have been outside of the six months you promised me, so wipe away your tears, Harry. I have no wish to see you cry, Meleth e-gûr nîn meleth.” Unable to stop himself, Thranduil strode forward to cup one of Harry’s cheeks, his thumb brushing away the tears it could reach. “Come, let us to supper.”

“I don’t want to eat with you right now.”

“Surely you must be hungry? You barely ate today.” Thranduil gazed at the tray a servant had brought three hours ago that still sat untouched outside of Harry’s previously barricaded door. 

“I could eat,” Harry admitted softly, “just not with you. I can barely stand to look at you!” Thranduil’s eyes went wide. He looked hurt; really hurt, not just the pretend hurt he effected sometimes when he was trying to hide how angry he was. “Did you not think that even if you told me I would have been rational enough to understand that yes, we wouldn’t find Gandalf in time? Did you not think that _lying_ to me about it was worse than anything you could ever do? How were you married so fucking long, Thranduil! You’re more concerned with the fact that I was ‘out of time’ than the fact that you lied, and it makes me feel sick thinking about how I have an eternity of that to look forward to with you. And thinking about that also makes me want to cry, so excuse me for not wanting to wipe away my tears, or eat with you, or even fucking _look_ at you right now.” 

“Harry, I-” He stopped speaking abruptly, having nothing to say. Thranduil was honest and loyal and good, but he lied to protect the ones he loved (like most people did), but overcome by fear of loss and the madness that permeated the Greenwood, it _hadn’t_ occurred to him that lying for _his_ own benefit wouldn’t benefit Harry too. “I’m sorry,” he whispered at last, but Harry had already turned his back on him. The door to Harry’s bedroom was locked when Thranduil tried to open it, and though he wanted to force his way inside there was no excuse he could give that would make Harry forgive him and he wouldn’t lie again, couldn’t lie, and Harry deserved better than to watch him flounder uselessly in the doorway when he wanted to be alone. So Thranduil let him be.

He ate alone in his own chambers. With Legolas gone chasing after Dwarves and Harry locked in his rooms and all of their guests escaped, it was pointless to lay out the royal dining table and he didn’t feel up to eating with the rest of the kingdom that night. 

It was two days before Thranduil realised that Harry wasn’t just _avoiding_ him, but that Harry was _gone_. 

_XXX_

While locked in his room, Harry would only let Novourion inside. His personal guard brought his food and took his dirty clothes away to be washed and replaced it with clean attire. They talked softly, about Novourion’s stay in the dungeons (for going along with Harry’s rescue of the Dwarves), and of his own fight with Thranduil, and though the Elf tried to encourage Harry’s forgiveness (because the King’s heart had been in the right place), he consoled Harry nonetheless. Novourion hugged Harry through his tears and tried to make him laugh his grief away, half afraid that the Wizard might fade like a heartbroken Elf would (and at the same time terrified that the Elven-king would fade while Harry was locked away from him, though of course it took much, much longer than a few days for grief to kill their kind). 

“He was probably afraid that you’d want to help,” Novourion said, unknowingly piquing Harry’s interest. 

“Help with what?” The Wizard asked curiously. 

"Oh," Novourion continued, not seeing any harm in gossiping a little, because surely everyone knew why Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror had journeyed back to Erebor. He was, of course, forgetting that Harry wasn't originally from Middle Earth, and when he confided, "Why, to kill the dragon, obviously!" he was rather shocked by Harry's completely negative response. 

"You can't kill a dragon!" Harry shouted, jumping up from the bed to pace angrily. He wagged a finger at Novourion’s face, eyes narrowed and teeth grinding as he primly informed the other, "they're an _endangered species_!" 

"He's a dragon?" The Elf asked, more than told, for there was a little something in his voice that suggested that he wasn't quite sure that he was speaking truthfully. "Right?" 

"They can't kill him! They can't. Imagine what the department for the regulation and control of magical creatures would say, imagine what they'd do! Those Dwarves would never be able to afford the fine, Novourion. You've got to go stop them!" Harry stopped quickly; one moment he was pacing towards the door and the next he was standing with one foot raised, about to turn, but not moving. "I should go stop them?" 

And why shouldn't he? Thranduil had lied to him, broken promises that were inherent in any relationship, so why should Harry be forced to keep promises that were forced out of him by time constraints? Why should Harry sit in his room like a child in need of punishment when he hadn't done anything wrong, while Thranduil could roam around free, content in the knowledge that Harry had no choice but to calm down and forgive him eventually, for where else could Harry go? Why should Harry have no choice, because there was no one who knew how to help him? Well, dragons were old. Surely a dragon would know a little about everything there was to know, possibly even how Harry might get home? 

He wasn't sure if he actually wanted to leave, because he did love Thranduil. But did he want to stay forever? He wasn't too sure. It would be nice to have that choice, to be the master of his own destiny for once, instead of fate's bitch, thrown across worlds and into wars because of stupid prophecies and stupid 'unknown magical objects' he had never asked for. Maybe he could go home for a little while, raise his sons, and when they were grown up with children of their own, Harry could come back to Thranduil, who was after all going to live practically forever. All of that would be rather a moot point if the dragon was killed before Harry could find him; not that Harry even knew where to start looking for him, mind you. 

But Novourion did, he must do, for how else would he know that the Dwarves were going to kill a dragon unless he knew where the Dwarves were going? 

"I'm going to stop them," Harry repeated, sounding twice as sure as he'd ever felt in his life. With his arms folded across his chest and his eyes narrowed, the Elf thought his King's consort looked rather terrifying (but maybe it was more the words he said next that frightened the Elf). "And you're going to help me." 

It didn't occur to Harry until he was already outside of the boarder of Mirkwood, with a very reluctant Elf guard in tow, that there was no such thing as the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in Middle-Earth. But by then it was too late to turn back, and Harry had never been one to admit defeat anyway, so he was going ahead with his plan, to rescue a dragon and find a way back to London. He was going on an adventure. 

**XXX**

 

* * * 

Thanks for sticking with me, despite me accidentally freaking you all out that the last chapter was the end of the story!


	7. Chapter VII

It was hard to think of a way for Harry to be semi-friendly with Smaug without it seeming corny. And also, must follow the canon as much as possible, right? Sorry it took so long. I have exams coming up, so updates will be a little slower, unless you all want (much) shorter chapters?

**Words:** 6,553  
 **Chapter 07**   
Kili threw himself to the ground, hands over his head to keep his hair from flying up and catching alight as Smaug breathed a jet of fire directly over him. It would have been through him, if not for his fast reflexes and Nori's scream of warning. His bow went flying and the arrow he had been about to notch sailed in the other direction, and Kili was left to scramble along the ground on hands and knees, trying desperately to get out of sight of the dragon. 

Their plan hadn't worked, and Bilbo had accidentally woken him, and now Smaug was on the war path. He crashed into statues that he had long left standing, purposely bashed his head off of walls to try and bring them down upon the cowering Dwarves and he hurled fire as far as he could manage, hissing and wailing about thieves and liars and _barrel-riders_ in particular. 

The barrel-rider in question was hiding behind a rather large stone pillar, carved to bear likeness to a long-dead King. Thorin was in front of him, hiding the Hobbit with his body and keeping him as safe as he possibly could. It was Thorin's fault that Smaug had awoken, Thorin who had demanded proof that Bilbo had found the hoard of treasure and the sleeping dragon beneath, Thorin who had so foolishly sent his One back into the Wyrm’s lair, into the jaws of the creature who was woken and waiting for the thief to return. And now his nephew was trembling, spread prostrate along the ground, and his other was begging Mahal for mercy, screaming at Kili to "come faster!" His friends were scorched and bruised and terrified, and none the richer for their troubles, and he had threatened his One at sword-point for a gem that none of them had managed to find. 

"Run!" Thorin shouted, his voice startling the dragon into turning. It was the first time Thorin had spoken loudly enough for the others to hear him since his almost attack against Bilbo over the Arkenstone. Mostly, he had mumbled to himself, whispered softly that he was a fool or that he was sorry, but when he spoke this time his voice was loud enough to shake the coins around them. Some toppled down, rolling amongst its fellows like cresting waves, and Smaug's attention was drawn instantly to the direction it came from.

The dragon remembered that voice. It had sworn vengeance against him once, had screamed at him as its owner had dragged the old, mad King away from the gold they had all so coveted. The voice was wearier, shakier than it had been, but it was unmistakably the same voice. 

"So, you have returned," Smaug whispered. That 'whisper' was not the same as a person’s whisper. Dragon's vocal chords are incapable of soft sound after all. His voice was like a storm through the trees, shaking the branches and rattling the leaves, while still being at the heart of it all soft as wind. "Well, well," the dragon continued, tongue flicking out to lick its front teeth thoughtfully, probably remembering the taste of Thorin's fellows. "You took your time."

_XXX_

Their plan to trap Smaug in molten gold failed as badly as their first plan (to trap themselves in the mountain once Smaug went outside looking for them: of course, Smaug came back in again). This time the Dwarves were alone in Erebor, the dragon gone. Unfortunately the dragon had gone towards Esgargoth and the people of Lake-Town were completely unaware of what danger soared towards them. 

Speaking of Esgargoth, Harry was rather pleased by the little town in front of him. It reminded him a bit of Knockturn Alley: rickety buildings on top of bigger buildings, no streets fair enough, but canals and walkways that looked like you wouldn't want to be caught out alone at night. It was dirty, and seedy, and the people cast you dirty looks from the corners of their eyes as you walked by, but it reminded him of home, so Harry liked it despite its lack of charms. He had liked it when he last visited with Legolas, and he liked it all the more this time because it was one more stop on his way to rescue a dragon (and how many heroes in fairytales could boast of that, huh?) and he couldn't wait because rescuing the dragon would bring him one step closer to going home. 

Harry had apparated to the edge of the town, and waited there, both feet on the first part of the bridge that connected Lake-Town to the shore. He had watched for anyone following them from Mirkwood, but no Elves came, and no humans came running towards them brandishing weapons either, so eventually Novourion’s protests had been ignored and Harry had taken his first steps into Esgargoth (for the second time). 

No one had greeted him this time; instead everybody seemed too concerned with loading their possessions into their boats (those who had them), or rowing their way into the middle of the lake, back towards Thranduil’s kingdom. 

“What’s going on?” Harry asked, grabbing the arm of the closest person to him. The man barely stopped running at the contact, flinching a little and tugging his arm away, breaking his stride for a second before he was on the move again. It was Sigrid, Bard’s daughter, who stopped to answer him. 

Her arms were loaded up with vegetables, most of which didn’t look like they were ready to harvest yet. There was a satchel slung over one shoulder, and she tilted under the weight of it, but she carried no weapons, unlike the older men whose hands shook, fingers trembling around their scythes and hoes and oars. The guards in the city had real weapons, maces, swords and axes, bows and arrows, and canons, but there were no guards in the street. The guards were all surrounding the Master of Lake-Town’s barge, as Alfrid gave a mighty push and set them on their way away. 

“We’re evacuating,” Sigrid told him. She glanced at Harry accusingly and at Novourion as if he were what they were running from. “Can’t you hear it? The wind like a hurricance? Can’t you see the trees bending in half as he passes over them? Don’t you know what’s coming?” Her voice was shrill, but there was something pitying about her eyes, and it made Harry’s chest hurt to think these people were so very afraid but that they could spare a little fear on his behalf. 

Harry wondered if it was the Dark Lord Thranduil spoke to him about, the one who has slain Gil-Galad, who had destroyed Lindon and Gondolin, who had enslaved Arda once. But Novourion let out a soft exhale, and there was terror in that sound, fear and pain and desperation, and all together it sounded like, “ _dragon_!” 

“Dragon?” Harry asked, eyes moving swiftly from Novourion’s pale wide-eyed face to the mountain of Erebor, most of whose trees were bent in half, snapped at the trunks; those that still stood upright were burning with dragonfire, torches on the mountainside, like stars against the night sky; the river under Erebor rippled like rapids, wings beating waves into the once calm waters; and though Harry couldn’t see it, all in Smaug’s path fled in fear, but not all escaped. “The dragon is coming?”

“Yes,” the little girl said, and before she could say more Novourion grabbed her around the waist and started running. He dropped her into the nearest boat, unconcerned with ownership and the woman already in it looked more afraid of him than the dragon.

“Flee!” The Elf shouted. His sudden loss of composure startled Harry more than anything else that had happened. Thranduil got angrily, Thranduil got jealous and petty and drunk (most of the Mirkwood Elves were fond of getting drunk). But Harry had never seen an Elf afraid. 

“It’s only a dragon?” Harry couldn’t understand what all the terror was about. Norbert had been lovely, friendly and snuggly, and ok he (she as Harry later learnt) occasionally set fire to Hagrid’s home, but it _was_ made of wood! And it was no worse than anything Hagrid himself did to his house when he tried to illegally practice magic. The Hungarian Horntail was a little less friendly, but she had been protecting her nest and uprooted from her home and dragged across the world for a stupid game (that had endangered Harry more than the dragon had). Voldemort hadn’t used dragons in the war, nor had the Ministry or the Order of the Phoenix, but that was because they were endangered (and dangerous, but not so much when they were left alone). 

Smaug was only defending himself from the Dwarves that had come to kill him. Smaug was probably flying to Lake-Town to hide, to seek protection, and all the people here had to do was call on a dragon-tamer and everything would be fine. They’d bring the dragon to a reservation, re-home him, feed him and care for him, and Smaug would be safe and happy and so would everyone else around him. 

But, of course, Arda had no dragon-tamers. 

The closest they had was Harry. 

So when the Wizard suggested they talk to the dragon, Bard volunteered him. 

"Me?" Harry squeaked. Sure he wanted to speak to the dragon-- at some point, but not when it was fleeing for his life and had just been attacked by Dwarves! Dragons were always in a bad mood when someone woke them up (that was basically the Hogwarts motto, did these Men know nothing?) and Harry didn't want to talk to anything that could breathe fire while it was in a bad mood. "Why me?"

"You wanted to talk to it, right? Now's your chance," one of the fishermen said, leaning forward to push Harry back by the shoulders. Harry stumbled away from the lake, back towards the houses that were starting to rattle as the dragon approached. The fisherman climbed into a boat, followed by several others. 

"Smaug gave up burning out town once we built it on the Lake," a very old lady whispered, as she ducked around Harry and tried to scramble into a boat. Someone had to reach down and drop her in, before climbing down themselves. "Hopefully he'll leave us alone if we're in the water. Not even dragonfire can burn water."

Bard watched as the town cleared out, leaving himself and a handful of others to keep watch. Most of them were hidden, some had been sent as scouts to warn Thranduil that the dragon had awoken, and two others ran fearing for their lives beneath the belly of the beast towards Erebor to see whether the Dwarves lived or if the gold was theirs to claim if the opportunity arose. And why wouldn't it, with an Istari in their midst?

"My King will not be facing a dragon!" Novourion's voice was cold and steely, and Harry cringed at the sound of it. He wasn't as bad as Thranduil, but the tone was close, and Harry could only imagine what his lover might have said had he been there. 

"You spent a wet night at my house once, did you not?" Bard asked, as he completely ignored the Elf. That look was back in his eyes, the one that made Harry's spine stiffen and his hackles raise, and he thought of Cornelius Fudge looking for a scapegoat and a photoshoot and someone to help him get the votes. Bard had wanted something then, but Harry hadn't known what at the time, and Bard still wanted something now. "You ate my food. You wore my clothes. You ousted my son from his bed so that you could claim it."

"You offered it to me!" Harry's mouth had dropped open with shock. Legolas had been the one to ask for shelter; Harry had been happy enough to ride to Mirkwood in the rain, because a shield charm would have kept them reasonably dry. 

"You owe me," Bard insisted. "You brought the Dwarves here, who have brought Smaug down upon our heads and homes again. You owe it to my _children_ to try and protect them from the trouble you have wrought." 

Harry flinched then, because the man was right: if he hadn't released the Dwarves, this wouldn't have happened. Maybe Gandalf would have come back and Harry would have found a way home at some point, and the Dwarves would have left with the Istari, but the dragon would have slept still, buried under the mountain, and Bard's two children wouldn't be trembling in fear, huddled between strangers on the first boats that they could fit in to. "What do you want me to do?"

"Help us kill the dragon," was Bard's demand. Around them, people began to whisper amongst themselves. Those far out in the water shouted back for news and those rowing towards them glanced warily at Harry over their shoulders, but those that hadn't pushed away from the town yet whispered pleadingly for his help. 

"I don't know how to kill a dragon!" And he didn't. There was no Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and so too, must there be no dragon-tamers, or sanctuaries, or friendly dragons that were content to be bred and fed and bathed by their handlers. Harry didn't know how to deal with a dragon that was taller than him, and even Norbert had been a bit of a struggle for him to handle when Harry was eleven! Norwegian Ridgebacks were a friendly breed: from what Harry could see of Smaug as he crested over the hill and forests that lay between them and Erebor, he was a Chinese Fireball... and they were particularly vicious, with a particular taste for boar and _humans_. But he had survived a nesting Hungarian Horntail, and no one but the dragon had even gotten hurt, so maybe there was hope for him yet. "I can't kill it," Harry admitted softly. He ground his back teeth together for a moment, but when he spoke again his voice was louder, surer. "But I can lead it away from you!"

Shit, he thought as he pulled his wand from the pocket of his Elven-made robe, please let this work. 

" _Levicorpus_ ," Harry incanted, pointing his wand tip first towards the last boat that remained bobbing in the water just below the wooden walkway. When it started to rise up from the water, people screamed, and distantly Harry could hear the dragon roar, sensing their fear and loving it. He threw himself into the boat, trying to imagine that it was just a slightly bulkier broomstick to keep himself from getting sick over the side, and then Harry pointed behind himself, just over Novourion's shoulder, and crossed the fingers on his left hand. "Wish me luck? _Expelliarmus_!" Red light shot from the tip of his wand, bouncing harmlessly off the door of the house behind the Elf and propelling Harry, and his boat, into the air directly towards the dragon. 

"This was a bad idea, Harry Potter!" He chided himself angrily, trying to ignore his Elf-friend's desperate cry of 'NO!' and the unseen attempt to pull the King's consort back to him. "If the dragon doesn't kill you, Thranduil will!" And suddenly it was very, very important what Thranduil might think of this. Because while Harry was angry that the Elf had lied, he still loved him, and Thranduil loved him too, and with a sinking feeling in his gut Harry remembered that Elves could die of grief. 

"Better not get killed them," Harry told himself, a mental semi-pat on the back for luck. He cast another _Expelliarmus_ at the water below him, hitting the edge of one of the boats and making his own boat jump up a foot into the air as if it had been electrocuted. It was something he and Ron had used to do while they were bored at work: with all the Dark Wizards rounded up, there wasn't much for an Auror to do other than rescue cats from trees and deliver summons and fines, which got a little boring. So he and Ron had invented some games, most were harmless, and one almost burnt down the staff canteen, but they had resulted in what Hermione called 'psychics' and Ron called 'that thing with the spells, propulsion-y thing', ending with an argument that Harry got caught in the middle of (again). 

"Oi! Smaug!" He called out to the dragon, waving his left hand over his head to catch the creature’s eye. Yellow orbs locked onto him and Harry's entire body shuddered at the realisation that he was probably going to be eaten alive (by something other than a basilisk or Fluffy or a giant spider or-- actually, that happened to him a lot, so his sudden fear probably had more to do with the fact that he could still hear Novourion screaming for him to run). "I have something that belongs to you!" He didn't, but the dragon didn’t know that. 

Harry flew right under Smaug’s belly, and the creature back flipped in the air in order to follow him. It chased Harry’s boat back towards the mountain, growling about thieves all the while (likely thinking that Harry was the invisible burglar who had stolen his chalice, escaping, and leaving the Dwarves to face his fury alone). Harry cancelled the levitation charm on the boat as he passed over the trees that hid the lake from view. Once out of sight of the terrified humans, Harry plummeted into the greenery with a shriek; he could have planned that out better, he realised as he threw himself to the side, over the edge of the boat and into a tree. His arms locked around a branch, jaw knocking off of it too and rattling the teeth almost out of his head. He felt fuzzy and dizzy and it came as no surprise that his arms couldn’t hold his weight for long. 

Harry fell again, and Smaug soared down after him, a wrathful shadow, snapping the same branch from the tree and ploughing into the ground with his claws. He missed Harry, but only because his instincts were as sharp as ever. Apparating behind the tree didn’t help his headache much, but it saved his life and Harry allowed himself a moment to lean back against the tree as he tried to catch his breath. 

There was no point staying hidden forever though. The dragon could smell him. Merlin, the dragon could probably hear him, he was panting so hard. 

“Uh, Mr Smaug?” Harry cautiously stuck his head around the trunk of the tree. He had to pull back twice as fast though, as Smaug aimed a jet of fire right at where his face had been. The sleeves of his robe singed, fabric catching until Harry frantically patted them out. The bark behind him cracked from the heat, groaning and flaking, and the leaves turned to ash that made Harry cough and sputter and wave his hand in front of his face to blow them away. 

“Mr dragon?” Harry tried again, this time keeping safely hidden. To be safe though, he apparated _into_ the tree, fingers crossing as he mentally ordered the dragon not to look up. “I didn’t really take anything. I was just trying to get you away from the town.”

“A liar,” came the sibilant whisper, like the basilisk crying ‘kill’ as he swept through the plumbing at Hogwarts. “A liar… and a thief.”

“I’m not a thief!” Harry insisted. “I didn’t take anything from you! I just wanted to talk to you away from the Muggles, uh, I mean people. They were kind of distracting, you know, with the hysteria and the screaming and, well you probably get that a lot?” 

“It is truth that I oft strike fear into the hearts of those that see me. Most, however, do not see me coming, but at times it amuses me to play with my food.” The dragon sounded like Lucius Malfoy as he had threatened Harry, cane poking the child in the chest with every syllable. Harry could imagine Malfoy’s smirk on Smaug’s face, the narrowed eyes, the sharp curl of his thin lips; the Wizard shuddered, not wanting to think of Malfoy from before he reformed (though he was still a slimy git even after the war). 

“Right,” Harry stammered after a moment, unsure of what to say in response, “well. Uh, is now a good time to talk to you?” 

Crunching sounds filtered up into the tree that Harry hid in. He glanced down, catching sight of a long red tail as it disappeared from sight, trailing across the ground like a giant snake as Smaug moved around the forest searching for him. The dragon went in circles around the crop of trees that Harry had first crashed into and then apparated into next. He knew the human was somewhere here, but like all villains, Smaug failed to look up, and Harry really hoped he didn’t any time soon. 

“About what, little liar?” The creature asked, tongue flicking out to lick at his snout. 

“Well, dragons are clever, right? And you’re very old, so you must now an awful lot of clever stuff, right?” Malfoy was like a peacock; flattery could get you anywhere with him (with either of them) and wounded pride made life long enemies of them. The dragon was cut from the same cloth: same drawling tone, same smugness as he spoke of horrible things he had done, and same preening, puffed out chest reaction to Harry’s praise. 

“I am awfully clever, little liar.” Smaug’s tone was suddenly more agreeable than it had been seconds earlier, and Harry risked a deep, relieved exhale at the change. “But why should I speak to you instead of simply eating you?”

“You don’t want to eat me,” Harry insisted, hands starting to shake around the branch he clung to, “I’m all bone and gristle. I’d give you indigestion too. But I’m a great listener, and I’d love to hear about all of the places you’ve been and the magical things you might have seen. I’m magical too, you know?”

“Of course,” Smaug agreed, for he hated to admit to not knowing something, even when he didn’t. Harry let the lie pass, but he cleared his throat pointedly, and again, until at last Smaug hissed low and long and his head came back into view at the base of the tree trunk Harry hid above. “Once I lived north of here, so long ago that the name is no longer remembered, and there I met an Elf named Melkor.” 

Smaug began hesitantly, but the more Harry oh’d and ah’d his tale, the more Smaug began to enjoy himself. He even acted out scenes, taking to the sky and somersaulting back down as he described an aerial battle he had taken part in, and razing trees with his claws as he pretended to slay the Elves that had later been known as the Valar, and burning all his fire could reach as he wailed about Morgoth’s banishment to Valinor. 

It had been an awfully long time since someone had actually _listened_ to him instead of screamed at him of how they would kill him. Perhaps, Smaug thought to himself as he continued the tale of Morgoth and his pupil Sauron the Maiar, he would eat the human later on. Or perhaps not since he was Maiar too, and the Maiar were more fun to corrupt and let loose upon the world than any other race that Smaug had met yet. 

He’d decide later, once his tale was done, depending on if he were hungry or not then. 

_XXX_

When Thranduil discovered that Harry was missing, his first reaction was to sit on the edge of Harry’s bed. It was that or to collapse where he stood with three of his guards and a concerned servant watching. 

The servant had noticed that two days of food had piled up outside of Harry’s locked rooms. The guards had come to report that Novourion hadn’t shown up for his rostered patrol of the forest that morning (as Harry’s personal guard he was exempt expect for once a month out of fairness to the others). Together the group of five had made their way to Harry rooms, which, like the servant had reported had a rather large pile of full trays going to waste outside of the door. The door had been locked from the inside only this time, because it was Harry who was angry and who deserved to be left alone who had locked himself in and not Thranduil who had barricaded the door shut from the hallway out of fear that Harry might talk to a Dwarf. No one had answered, and none of the Elves with their impeccable hearing had been able to detect so much as a heartbeat from within the room. One of the guards had softly apologized to his King for the destruction of his property before kicking in the door, concern for one of his soldiers and the Consort outweighing all other emotions. 

There was a fine layer of dust upon everything and the bed was unmade and cold, the food that had been inside on the day Harry left had begun to smell of rot and the water in his cup was stale and filmy. The room smelt of dust and earth, but not of Harry whose scent usually lingered for hours at the least after he left a room. There was something bare about the room, something missing other than its owner. The wand that usually rested upon the bedside table was gone, as was Harry’s favoured robe, the black one with the leather laces that he had arrived in that he always wore underneath the Elven made ones Thranduil kept gifting him with. The fur throws from the bed were gone too, taken as a precaution in case the nights grew cold no doubt. 

“He seems to have been gone a while,” the tallest of the guards remarked, eying the King from the corner of his eyes for his reaction. 

Thranduil heard the word ‘gone’ and thought back to their fight, to all of their fights because it was one of the things they did best, other than make up again. At ‘gone’ his legs had begun to tremble, his fingers clenching the fabric of his robe to keep them from shakily reaching out to stroke the pillows he and Harry had often laid their heads upon. The King found he had to sit suddenly, one hand over his mouth because he really wanted to scream and he knew he shouldn’t whilst in company. Perched on the edge of the bed, Thranduil looked like someone awaiting execution, with his shoulders slumped and his hands pale as bone from their grip over his shaking knees. The toes of his feet curled into the floor, trying to find purchase in a world that had been ripped out from under him. His eyes were wide and sightless, blue from unshed tears and his mouth was slack, all hidden behind a fall of pale golden hair. 

“Do you think he ran off with Novourion?” The second guard asked the one who kicked in the door. The tallest one smacked them both lightly on the arm, scolding them with his gesture and his glare. 

“My liege,” the Elf moved to kneel before his King as he spoke softly, “should we follow after them?”

“Together?” Thranduil asked his voice breathless. “You think they are together?” Anger overtook the grief that had spread through him at the realisation that he had been abandoned. He had expected Harry to leave if he could; Harry wanted to leave him, but for his sons, his friends, his _world_. Those were acceptable reasons to leave (though not preferable), for Thranduil would have returned to his home for the same reasons. But how dare Harry leave him for a Silvan guard! How dare Harry betray Thranduil Oropheriön in such a way? 

“Get my armour,” he ordered his voice like steel. He stood, back straight and shoulders stiff and the second guard demurely lowered his eyes as he ducked back into the corridor, happily accepting any excuse to escape from the furious King. 

Thranduil rode out with his royal escort, fifty guards in total and ten attendants (servants who only served during war or diplomatic missions, who carried the standards of Greenwood the Great, who bore messages from one camp to another and rode ahead to scout for danger before the party could meet it). He left Galion, a friend as well as a subject, in charge of his Kingdom until his or Legolas’ return. Thranduil did not know where his son was or when he would return, but since he was on his way to drag Harry home (by his hair if needs must) he would happily escort his son back too if their paths happened to cross. They were bound to stumble upon one another at some point, after all, for how far could Legolas have gotten?

_XXX_

Legolas had hoped the catch the Dwarves before they made it to Lake-Town. Instead, he had caught Tauriel inspecting thirteen empty wine barrels by the edge of the beginning of Long Lake. She was armed and dangerous, but Legolas had surprise on his side. His bow was notched and his arrow fired before Tauriel could raise her knife, and it was only by throwing herself into the lake that she avoided being impaled. Legolas laughed heartedly at his friend as he offered her his hand. She refused him, scowling as she heaved herself back onto the shore, scowling all the while.

“What was that for?” She groused, as she took a fistful of her hair and began wringing it out. 

“To keep you on your toes,” Legolas informed her smugly. “Or off of them as the case may be.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Legolas repeated, arching an eyebrow. “At least Ada knows that I am here. You are disobeying orders.”

“I was searching for the Dwarves when I came across Orc scouts. I killed the ones I could, but some chose to flee. I was following them along the River Running when I came across these. When the night watch reported that the Dwarves escaped in wine barrels I thought them to be jesting,” Tauriel said with an unamused snort, “yet I appear to be wrong.”

“First time for everything,” Legolas teased. “Any sign of them?”

“Long gone by now, is my guess. The Orcs took up a lot of my time, and if the Dwarves were running from them as well as us, they’d have wanted to make good time.” Tauriel started walking, around the lake (rather than across it like Thorin’s company had), Legolas at her side, unknowingly trailing behind Azog’s son Bolg who was already hot on the heels of the King Under the Mountain. 

Azog himself was elsewhere, waiting and gathering as many willing hands as he could find, Goblin and Orc alike, members of Shelob’s brood if he could travel them that far without having to sacrifice members of his army to feed them, Wargs, Trolls too. There was an Istari his master had sent him after, though not the one that was already imprisoned in the abandoned fortress of Dol Guldur. This one was young and dangerous, Elf-friend and already living within the shadow of the Necromancer, close by and easy to snatch. But his scouts had informed him that the Istari was gone, chasing after the same dragon that Azog was supposed to have sent Bolg after (not the Dwarf, though the Orc had found that chase the more favourable one). The Necromancer wanted the Dragon for the same reason he wanted the Maiar: power. They were dangerous but uncontrollable, and he wanted Azog to collect them because the pale Orc was renowned for his ability to control others, in the worst ways you could imagine. 

_XXX_

It went without saying that the Dragon Azog thought of was Smaug, and the Wizard was none other than Harry, and to make things easier for the Orcs, the two were already together when they were found. 

Bolg let out a war cry—more of a frightened shriek that he tried to salvage—at the sight of Smaug curled up beneath one particular tree. Harry was sitting on the back of his neck, legs dangling on either side, kicking aimlessly as his arms cradled his head on the back of Smaug’s own head. 

Smaug stopped speaking immediately, his tale finishing abruptly and Harry found himself desperate to know how Isildur’s story ended. “Do you mind?” Harry glared at the Orc as he spoke, sitting up so that he could see the small band of creatures that had interrupted them. Then, he really saw them, and he blinked twice, confused and horrified at the sight of them. Smaug had spoken of Sauron’s minions, his creations (though Melkor’s really), but Harry hadn’t really put an image to the word and Smaug had used no word but ‘filth’ to describe them. “What the fuck?” 

Smaug shuddered beneath him, laughing softly at Harry’s reaction. He stood up then, surging to his feet in one smooth motion that Harry hardly felt the movement at all except to notice that he was suddenly taller. 

“It is your lucky day, Istari,” the dragon growled. He shook his head furiously to knock Harry loose, sending him sprawling to the ground and then scrambling behind a tree as an arrow came soaring through the air towards him. “I was beginning to grow hungry,” Smaug continued, showing his teeth menacingly to the Orcs, “but now I can eat them instead of you.” 

_XXX_

Novourion had no idea what he was supposed to do after Harry flew out of sight, chased by a dragon. The Men went back to their hiding places, bows and arrows ready, a Dwarven wind lance of all weapons manned by the one who had forced Harry to fight the Wyrm alone, and on the Lake the others waited in silent terror, listening to the growls that carried back over the trees to them on the wind. 

Novourion couldn’t fight a dragon alone, nor were these Men likely to accompany him, but Mirkwood was just over a day’s ride from here. If Thranduil had noticed Harry missing these last two days then he was surely on his way, and if Novourion left now, if he ran as fast as he was able, they would meet up with plenty of time left to save their Wizard. Assuming the dragon hadn’t caught him yet. 

“Please be alive,” the Elf prayed to the Valor for protection, strength and bravery, but for himself as well as Harry, for he was the one who would have to explain to the Elven-king (with his fear of dragons as strong as his hatred for Dwarves) that his mate was alone with Smaug and no weapons. He had no wish to die that day, but if he had to choose a method, dragon fire would be kinder than anything King Thranduil might do. 

_XXX_

Thranduil’s anger burned hot in his veins, quickening his heart and drying his mouth and making the blood lust surge up within him. He wanted to hurt something, kill _someone_ in particular, but he refused to look anything but composed as he rode out at the head of his guard. They rode hard and fast, pushing their horses (though Thranduil rode a Mearas rather than his usual Elk if only for speed) beyond what they were capable. But Thranduil was determined to catch up with his _fea-meldor_ before Harry could get too far from him, or find Gandalf and leave Arda forever. 

It was not Harry he found though, nor Legolas who had since been set upon by a second party of Orcs. It was Novourion. 

His sword was in his hand before Thranduil had even dismounted. He strode towards the guard, who was suddenly prostrate upon the floor, hands held out before his bowed head as he mumbled apologies long enough for Thranduil to lower his sword (always unwilling to kill an unarmed opponent). Once the sword was down, Novourion was up. He lunged at Thranduil, pulling at his robes furiously, trying to tug him forward as he babbled desperately. He was red faced and out of breath, legs sore from running, but terror kept him moving. Thranduil had travelled further than he had, but it had still taken Novourion far too long to find his King. 

“Please, please, come, you have to come,” the Elf insisted frantically. Two guards dismounted, striding forward to pull Thranduil from his attacker, but Novourion wrenched the King’s sword from his stunned hands, waving it frantically at the other guards who stopped suddenly, fearing that Novourion meant to kill their liege. “You have to come! You need to. I don’t know what to do and Harry is alone with it and they made Harry go and they’re hiding and I don’t know what to do! Please?”

“No one can understand you.” It was Thranduil’s valet who spoke. In one hand, Lanolar carried a flag with Thranduil’s emblem stitched upon it, and in the other was a knife that he purposely tucked back into the belt at his waist once he knew Novourion was watching him. He held that hand up placatingly, empty of threat and beseeching. “Repeat it slowly, and release the King.”

“No! No he has to come!” The Elf looked terrified, Thranduil realised, and with a sudden sickness that churned in his gut he realised that Harry was nowhere to be seen. 

“Where is he?” The King asked quietly, fearing the answer. He had thought the Wizard might be hiding, afraid of his wrath, or waiting in ambush until Novourion struck the first blow and he was required for backup. But no one was there but them, and Thranduil couldn’t think of any reason why a couple who had eloped together would be apart already. 

“I told you! Harry is alone with it and I don’t know what to do!” Novourion let out a tortured sounding groan at the multiple looks of confusion he was met with. He shook Thranduil by the robes again, fingers clenching tight enough to wrinkle cloth and to tug at the strands of hair that had unfortunately been taken captive too. “I don’t know what to do, sire, I don’t know how to kill a dragon!”

Once more, Thranduil thought his legs might give out under him. He stayed standing only by virtue of Novourion’s unreasonably tight grip on him, but his skin bleached of all colour as horror and terror both settled into his heart. His hands trembled and he could think of nothing to say, and Novourion shook him once more, pleading for help that Thranduil was not sure he could give, because this was a dragon they were speaking of. And Thranduil never wanted to face a dragon again. Let alone battle one.

**XXX**

Thanks to everyone who has commented or kudos’d so far. Thanks for reading this chapter. I hope you liked it.


	8. Part VIII

I’m sorry this took so long. Exams are rubbish and I hate studying, but I really should do so much more before June. FML. Enjoy!

* * * 

**Words:** 4,886  
 **Chapter 08**   
It was Lanolar who first found the courage to ask, “Smaug is awake?”

Thranduil’s valet was as pale as Thranduil himself; the skin of their faces almost see-through, the blood had flowed from their cheeks so fast. Hands shook and throats convulsed, and though Thranduil found that he couldn’t breathe, Lanolar had no such problems. In fact, he found that he could breathe far faster than he needed to. Air rushed into his lungs in furious gulps, hurting his chest and making his eyes water and someone would have caught him when his legs gave out except that the others weren’t any better off. Thranduil was still caught in Novourion’s grasp, unable to collapse because the other Elf refused to let him go. 

“Smaug is awake?” Lanolar asked again, panting the words out rather than saying them. His fingers curled into the dirt beneath him as he kneeled amongst his shaken fellows. The others talked amongst themselves, furious whispers that Novourion was lying mixed with terrified murmurs of ‘what if he isn’t?’ until someone finally asked what Thranduil was too shell-shocked to ask. 

“What do you mean the Consort is with the Wyrm?” 

Novourion frowned angrily, shaking his King once more in frustration because no one seemed to be listening to him. But their panic had calmed his own, and this time he managed to explain himself properly. “The townspeople sent Harry to face Smaug alone, because one of them let the Consort and Prince Legolas take shelter in his house during the storm the night before Mereth Nuin Giliath. Harry agreed to lead the dragon away, and I tried to stop him but he was flying and some of the Men went to Erebor and some were supposed to find you, Sire, but I found you first, and you need to come and help Harry because I don’t know what to do.”

“He faces a dragon?” Was Thranduil’s only response. It was soft and calm, as if the Elf didn’t quite believe or understand what it was he was saying, because the normal reaction would have been blind panic and fear of death. But Thranduil didn’t seem to mind that his mate could be dead, or dying as they spoke, or running for his life. In fact, Thranduil didn’t seem to mind anything, even as Novourion awkwardly tried to haul the King back onto his Mereas, the guard sitting behind him to keep him on the saddle. 

Novourion ordered the party to keep marching when Thranduil kept silent, his clenched jaw and pale cheeks the only sign that the King had been a part of that conversation at all. If Thranduil wouldn’t take charge, then Novourion would have to. But at least now he wasn’t alone. 

_XXX_

Harry wasn't quite sure what to do when Smaug attacked. 

One moment he had been lazily lying across the dragon's rather large head and the next he was rolling across the ground, thrown by one tremendous shake of his neck, and crashing into the trunk of a tree. His instincts said that he should pull out his wand and fight, but his aching head said that he should probably stay lying down until the world stopped spinning. When his vision cleared, Harry pulled out his wand, and crawled behind the tree trunk to keep well out of the way of Smaug's lashing tail. It cracked right through the trunk of the tree beside Harry's, knocking it fortunately in the other direction. 

Some of the Orc's weren't so lucky though; they got crushed beneath the equally unfortunate plant. 

Smaug's fire was hot and stank of brimstone and the trees around them began to crumble to ashes, the heat in the air alone enough to set them on fire. The dragon seemed bored, as it breathed fire in one direction and lashed out with its claws in another, or with its tail or its wings, swatting the Orc's down like wayward flies. Harry decided it would be best to stay clear; after all, he didn't want to get swatted by the dragon, nor did he want to deprive Smaug of his food... since it was him or the Orcs and he didn't fancy being eaten. 

When the fighting was over, Harry inched his way around the trunk. His head poked out first, his hair frizzy from the heat making him look like he wore a porcupine as a hat. His wand came next, the tip glowing green in case he needed to defend himself, clutched in a white knuckled hand. "Smaug?" Harry called curiously, "how does Isildur's story end?"

"Well," came Smaug's sibilant reply, "drag those bodies over here and I'll tell you."

Gold eyes were fixed on the Orcs trapped under the fallen tree, and Harry followed the gaze until he could see their mangled corpses too. He didn't look for long: they hadn't been pretty in life and they certainly weren't pretty in death. With a wave of his wand the trunk floated away, dropping to the other side of the bodies and rolling a little way into the forest until it got stuck against two other trees, forming a barrier between Harry and the way he had come. The bodies were floated over next, piled on top of one another right beside Smaug, who didn't hesitate at all before descending upon them, swallowing three whole at once. 

"Mmm," the dragon rumbled in satisfaction. "Not as nice as human, but makes a change from Dwarf." 

Harry cringed, keeping his face turned away so he wouldn't have to see Smaug eat the others. It felt like forever, watching Smaug eat without chewing, only stopping to tell Harry a sentence more of his tale between 'bites'. They had only reached the part about Isildur fleeing on horse back along the river when Smaug ran out of Orcs to eat. He turned, yellow eyes narrowed and tongue flicking out teasingly between sharp rows of teeth. 

"Still hungry?" Harry asked curiously, while mentally berating himself for having asked at all. 

"Hmm, to eat you I wonder, Maiar. What would you taste of? I have not yet had an Istari, you know, I have never known the taste of them." The dragon was teasing, Harry realised with a deep sigh of relief. His eyes were wide and his jaw had gone slack and his wings had folded down at his sides again. His head lowered, inviting Harry to climb back on top, but at that movement something rustled in the bushes and Smaug tensed again, poised to attack. 

"And you never will Wyrm!" Thranduil had moved so fast that Harry felt like he had blinked and the Elf had apparated in front of him in that millisecond. His sword was held ahead of him, tip pointed at Smaug's flaring nostrils; though he was pale and his hands were shaking, there was such a look upon the King's face that Harry knew the Elf hadn't been able to tell Smaug's threats from his humour. 

"No! No!" The Wizard called, waving his arms wildly to keep the other Elves back. They began towards their King from the bushes, their plan to sneak up on the dragon made futile by Thranduil's loss of composure. "It's ok, Smaug. Thranduil is my mate, he's just worried about me. He doesn't mean anything by it, honest!" Aside, he muttered through clenched teeth, "put down your sword, Thranduil."

The Elf shot him such an incredulous look that Harry snorted, amused despite himself by the sight of it upon the usually so emotionless face. "Novourion," Harry continued, turning towards the guard who was in front of the rest of the Elves, "can you bring them back to Mirkwood please? Or Lake-Town, or somewhere but here please?"

"Your mate?" Smaug asked, head tilted to one side as he curiously studied the taller of the two males in front of him. "Little thing, isn't he?" The dragon continued, his voice pitched low and intentionally malicious as he continued to hiss insults. "Weak looking and fragile. How can he protect you? What of your hatchlings; how can he protect those with so little muscle?" He flexed his wings, as if to prove his point. The muscles along his sides and down his back rippled as his wings moved, and Thranduil and Harry both were knocked back a foot by the sudden press of air that beat against them. 

Harry recovered first, shakily getting off of his backside and brushing himself down. "Well he's bigger than me!" Harry snapped, crossing his arms childishly. "And if you're going to be rude, I'll leave and hear the rest of _your_ story from _him_!" 

"Now don't be like that, little thief," Smaug jeered. With a snap of his jaws, Harry's cloak was caught between huge jagged teeth and Harry hung limply, stunned more so than afraid, as Smaug hefted him off of the ground and threw him into the air with one sharp flick of his long neck. Harry squeaked in surprise, which is to be expected when one finds themselves suddenly airborne; but Smaug caught him deftly, neck tensed to brace them both and wings raised to keep Harry from sliding off of his back. 

His expeirences with Buckbeak and the thestral helped Harry recognize what Smaug planned to do, and it was instinct alone that made his arms wrapped tightly around as much of his neck as Harry could instead of jumping off as Smaug launched himself into the air. 

"Put me down! Right this instant!" He scolded, pointing his finger the way he remembered Hermione pointing at Gwamp. Hermione had had more luck with the Giant. Smaug didn't fly away; rather he hovered out of reach of the Elves, smirking down at them with his shark-like grin, tongue flicking out teasingly as the Elves flustered amongst themselves. Thranduil looked ready to throw his sword into the air, but Novourion practically wrenched it out of his hands. Harry assumed it was so he wouldn't get hurt by accident, but it probably had more to do with a fear of pissing off the dragon with no chance of killing it. "This isn't funny!" 

"It is for me, little thief."

"I'm _not_ a thief!" 

Smaug hummed softly, though not quite in agreement. He flapped his wings hard sending some of the Elves to their knees and making the others brace themselves, arms shielding their faces from the sudden hurricane of debris from the forest floor. "That was funny too," Smaug casually said. 

He glanced back over his shoulder, his neck so long it could bend completely back on itself like the bend in the sink's drainage system (that Harry was sick of unblocking at home). His head rested on his shoulder, eyes staring straight at Harry. "Which of them is your hatchling? I might spare that one. I've not had Elf in eons."

"Don't be greedy! You just ate thirty of those creatures!" Harry had gone pale and his fingers curled in like hooks, digging beneath the joints of Smaug's scales anxiously. 

"The filth wouldn't fill a hole in my tooth," Smaug scoffed, shaking his head imperiously. He chuckled in amusement then, large golden eyes rolling at the look of dismay Harry graced him with. "You were more fun when we were alone. Perhaps I should kidnap you and keep you all to myself? Regale you with my stories and let you bask in my presence?"

"Until you get hungry again?" Harry clenched his jaw. He fought not to gaze away from Smaug, not wanting the dragon to think he was afraid (even though he was terrified and probably reeked of fear), but he could hear Thranduil's voice rising above all of the others' below him and Harry very much wanted to smile down at his mate reassuringly (and make sure the Elf wasn't going to do anything stupid). But he didn't look away from Smaug; the same as he would never have turned his back on Buckbeak or met the eyes of a Basilisk. 

"I do not think I would eat you, little thief. You amuse me, I admit. Perhaps not now, or tomorrow, or next year. But the future is something we neither can predict."

"So you _are_ planning to eat me?" Harry furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, mentally comparing Smaug to Dumbledore and cursing them both for not talking simply. 

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I will not eat your hatchlings for now either, nor your mate." Smaug's tail flicked out, catching a nest perched near the top of the closest tree and sending it flying, eggs and all, across the sky. 

"My hatchlings aren't here," Harry admitted softly, "and Thranduil's hatchling is fully grown but also not here. These are my nest mates, not my children." 

If Smaug had eyebrows, they would have been raised up off of his face. "So many of them?" The dragon snorted; smoke like a mushroom cloud from a bomb puffing from the end of each nostril and into Harry's face. "Such busy parents you must have had."

"It's a very big nest," Harry told him agreeably, instead of correcting him. He finally looked away from the dragon, turning to glance over the ridge of Smaug's large head at Thranduil and the others who waited fearfully below them. 

Smaug dropped out of the sky as soon as Harry's attention was off of him. The Elves barely had the time to throw themselves out of the way, lest they be crushed, as Smaug's belly hit the ground with enough force to uproot trees and send an avalanche of dirt shooting out from under him. Harry was pale faced and wide eyed, clinging fearfully to the scales of Smaug's neck; fingers buried beneath them, hooked in tight as he trembled. 

"Warn me next time!" The Wizard practically screamed. He was fond of flying and the adrenaline rushed was something he lived for, but falling to his death on the back of a dragon while crushing his mate to death? Not so much.

"Introduce me," Smaug ordered gleefully. He ignored Harry's shaking, and the way his legs kept kicking along his back as the man fought to calm himself down. He ignored the shrieks and threats of the Elves, and the way most of them had to scramble back (again), on their hands and knees to get out of his way as he made himself comfortable. Smaug wiggled in the dirt until his tail was curled around himself, tucked under his head like a pillow, and his legs were curled beneath his belly. Harry slid carefully off of the creature, making his way warily to Thranduil: Smaug made no move to snatch him back, just watched him calmly and silently and Harry allowed himself to walk that little bit faster. 

"King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm." Harry reached out to take hold of Thranduil's hand. The Elf had dropped his sword when he had thrown himself out of the path of the hurtling dragon, and he was stopped from reaching it (crouched down and inching his fingers across the ground) by Harry's hands taking both of his. "My mate. Thranduil, this is Smaug the terrible." He paused then, a soft smile on his mouth as he thought of something he had heard a long, long time ago. Still smiling, Harry added: "great, but terrible." 

"These are some of Thranduil's kin, his nest mates," Harry continued, emboldened by the Elves' lack of screaming. "When I came across you, I was actually on my way to Erebor and Thranduil and the others were coming to make sure I was safe. But I'm sure they're pleased to run into you along the way?"

Thranduil's breath came too fast to be normal and his face was too pale, his hands too clammy. Harry remembered the scar across the King's face, the burn that had peeled off the skin along the left side and the milky whiteness of the blinded eye. They weren't real scars, for those had healed a lifetime ago: no, these were scars upon the soul, for Elves were easily marred by such things as grief and terror and suffering. Thranduil's _fea_ had suffered more terribly than his flesh had, struck by his own injuries and the sight of his mother burning to death before him, of his people dying and his brother falling soon after, and it was more than he could ever recover from; as deep and as permenant as the loss of a mate. If it had not been for his duties as Prince, or his father's injuries that meant Thranduil had to finish the war for him, or for the fact that his sight had been saved, the battle eventually won, and the dragons driven back to the pit they had spawned from, Harry thought the Elf would have already faded. When asked once, Thranduil had not denied it, and Harry hadn't wanted to ask again to hear him confirm it. 

"Thranduil," Harry whispered, mouth against the fear-flushed cheek that had once been burnt by dragonfire, "I am here. You are safe." Smaug snorted at that, easily overhearing, but he didn't contradict the Wizard either.

The Elf seemed to inflate at that. His shoulders straightened and his spine stiffened and his lip took on that familiar disdainful curl. His fingers squeezed around Harry's own, grounding himself with the touch of his _fea-meldor_ , safe and warm beside him. Beside _him_ , Thranduil repeated the thought to himself, and not beside Novourion!

Thranduil tilted his head to one side, eyes roaming across Smaug's form lazily from his snout to his wings and down to his belly and back up to his tail that beat the ground beside his grinning teeth. "So, dragon, what business have you in my woods?" He drawled, lip curling in distaste as he awaited an answer. 

“Your woods,” Smaug repeated what Thranduil had once asked Legolas teasingly, though the dragon sounded far more irritated by the wording. 

“My woods,” Thranduil confirmed, accompanied by an angry narrowing of his eyes.   
Smaug said nothing in reply. Instead, he gave a slow roll of his large eyes, mockingly poking the tip of his tongue out so that it rested at the seam of his lipless mouth. Thranduil narrowed his eyes further, insulted by Smaug's smugness but also irritated by his inability to react to it. He couldn't fight a dragon, and he wouldn't risk the lives of his kin or his mate by trying. So, Thranduil kept silent, keeping eye contact with the creature, whose lip pulled back a little further with every second of silence that passed. 

Eventually Harry spoke, sighing loudly first before he said: "Yes, his woods." Smaug's eyes shot towards the Wizard, turning from yellow to gold with anger, but Harry spoke on, ignoring the dangerous look Smaug had fixed him with. "You haven't told me the rest of Isildur's story yet, and I brought you over the Orcs from under the tree!" And because Harry remembered how badly Smaug had reacted to the notion of him being a liar during one of his stories that Harry had criticised, and how very much the dragon seemed to dislike the idea of Harry being a liar, the Wizard said: "Fulfil your promise. Oathbreaker."

"I am no oathbreaker!" The dragon roared. 

Fire shot from the dragon's nostrils, burning out almost immediately and leaving nothing but heat and smoke behind. Thranduil couldn't stop himself from flinching, and though Harry's nails dug into the palms of his hands he managed not to throw himself out of the way. Smaug could probably smell the blood though, because he snorted, mouth curving up and anger vanishing; other peoples' fear always put him in a better mood. 

"Prove it then," Harry said, sounding more brave than he felt. He moved away from Thranduil, not wanting the Elf to get hurt if Harry manged to piss Smaug off enough to hurt _him_. 

The dragon stared at him unblinking, for what felt like forever but was only the time it took for his heart to pound furiously in his chest twice. Legs curled under his body, tail tucked up by his head again, Smaug made himself comfortable on the forest floor before he continued his tale from where it had last been interrupted. It was the strangest story-telling Harry had ever experienced, and that included watching Ron awkwardly try to read a Muggle fairytale to James when the child was too young to care and Ron to magical to understand it. The Elves were too afraid to leave, but too wary to get comfortable. Thranduil was as stiff as a board, between them and Harry, who had once more curled up upon the creature's broad head. Green eyes kept Thranduil's gaze, hoping that would be enough to keep the King calm and his knees pressed into Smaug's throat, every time the dragon gazed towards the Elves with interest, warningly. 

When the story was over, and Isildur had been shot in the river, the One Ring lost to the water, Smaug stood up fluidly. Harry stayed seated, though his arms flailed momentarily as his brain fought to distinguish between now and a moment ago when he was comfy and lying flat. "Come then," Smaug beckoned, already walking away from the Elves, "help me oust the Dwarves from my Kingdom."

Harry wasn't quite sure that that was what Thranduil had in mind, but he wasn't stupid enough to say it. Instead he channelled his inner Hermione, and tried to think of something diplomatic to say, or do, because if Smaug and the Dwarves could play nice (and not kill each other), Harry didn't see why they couldn't just _share_ the mountain? 

_XXX_

The Dwarves of Erebor would not be pleased to see the dragon come back. 

Nor, mind you, were the people of Lake-Town. 

When the dragon had not returned, and no Elves had come running from the forest chased by fire, the humans had felt it safe enough to row their boats back towards their houses. Only half of them had reached the wooden jettys that passed for 'land' in their town when the first cry went up. It started with a child, pointing and screaming "MOTHER!" and was swiftly followed by his mother's cry of "DRAGON!" It spread like wild fire, each person glancing warily up at the sky and then shouting the warning to those who had yet to see for themselves; meaningless as everyone had surely heard the first, just as they could hear Smaug's wings beat the air above them, but it made them feel better to scream.

Smaug soared towards them, tail cracking like a whip behind him, red against the sky, parting the clouds and setting them on fire as sunlight spilled in through the gaps. His wings were large and leathery, scaled and shining, like his underbelly which was covered everywhere with solid gold coins worn like chainmail. His teeth were bared, roaring perhaps, threatening the humans he so swiftly came towards (but in actual fact he was telling another story, about the town when he had first come to Erebor). 

The only difference between now and the Smaug they had run from hours earlier was the Istari who stood upon his back. Harry had one leg at the base of Smaug's neck, right where it curved to meet his back, foot sideways for better purchase. His other leg was a little further back, shoe-covered toes curling into his wing joint, using the gap between wing and shoulder to hold himself in place. His arms were spread wide, like a surfer riding the tide, and he was grinning widely one moment and scowling the next as Smaug reminisced about how many houses he had burned on his way passed centuries ago. 

"Well don't burn any this time," Harry ordered sternly. The wind rushing through his hair made him giddy, made him think about his Firebolt and his old Nimbus 2000 and of Buckbeak; made him too happy to really be angry. 

Behind them, on horses, came the royal guard of Mirkwood. Thranduil and his Mearas were at the front, with his standard bearers directly behind him, followed by the rest of the Elves. Novourion kept his distance from the King. He should have been closer, as Harry's personal guard he should have been as close to where Harry would be seated as possible, but, well, Thranduil still thought they had run away together according to Lanolar: but that was something Harry could take care of later. Novourion wouldn't touch that issue with a ten-foot lance. 

Two guards were riding together, one side-saddle and the other behind him with his hands on the reigns. The horse they had vacated carried the bodies of the two men that had run into the forest to find an Elf to warn the King about the dragon. They were dead, slit from throat to navel by morgul blades, the flesh having had enough time to rot at the entry point before the shock and blood loss had killed them. It was accepted by the Elves that the Orcs must have found the men before they had found Smaug. But that didn't stop one of the men, hidden in a tree watching for danger, from jumping to conclusions. 

The human notched his arrow and loosed it at the Elf who was guiding the horse that carried the corpses. The Elf heard the arrow escaping its bow, and turned his head to the side just in time to avoid getting speared through the neck. The Elves directly behind him pull on their own reigns, drawing their horses to a stop as they used their free hands to pull free their bows from where they were tied to their backs. Ahead of them, Thranduil stopped too. He turned back to face his kin, eyes narrowing and mouth drawn into a tight line, before he jumped from his horse, narrowly avoiding the arrow Bard sent towards him. 

The Bowman was crouched behind one of the houses, the next arrow’s head peeking out around the edge as Bard drew himself back, but not far enough to avoid an Elf’s eyes. Thranduil drew his sword, knocking the next arrow away easily before it could reach him. His kin had managed to drag the human out of the tree by the time Thranduil had managed to reach Bard and wrench the bow out of his hands. 

“You dare?” He snarled at the human. 

“You betrayed us!” Bard shouted, just as furious as Thranduil was. “What were we supposed to do? Lie on our backs and bellies while your whore and your dragon slay us all?” 

Thranduil’s hand struck like a cobra, the crack of his palm against Bard’s cheek loud enough to startle his kinsmen. “You dare?” He hissed this time, eyes narrowed into slits and lips pulled back in a snarl as the words escaped him through the gaps between his gritted teeth. Thranduil hit him again, hard enough to knock the human to the floor, where he knelt on one knee with the other leg collapsed under him, shaking away the ringing in his ears. The insult to his mate was too much, too far a slight to be forgiven, and the other Men seemed to realise that Bard had done something very, very wrong, for the small handful of them there were came out of hiding and threw their weapons down at King Thranduil’s feet. 

The people in the boats stayed huddled together, and those on the jettys raised their hands in the air in a silent plea for mercy. Above them all, Smaug circled the town twice, with Harry on his back staring curiously down at his lover. 

“No wonder none of them have tried to kill me,” Smaug mused, sounding far more amused than he had a right to. “You’re all too busy trying to kill each other.” When he laughed, it was like thunder rolling down the mountain, loud and heavy, startling the birds from the trees and the Men who were bowing into falling over and making the Elves tense again in fear. 

Thranduil gave no reaction this time, too focused on the face of the Man who had called his _fea-meldor_ a _whore_. When he spoke, his voice was soft again. The same silky tone that irritated Harry as much as it aroused him; his face, no longer flushed in anger nor bleached by terror, was calm and smiling softly, just a flick up at one corner of his mouth like he knew something no one else did and couldn’t hide how smug that made him; the brightness of his eyes that meant he was about to enjoy something, at someone else’s expense. 

“The creature is not my dragon, mortal. Though, he is rather fond of my _mate_ ,” Thranduil said, emphasising the last word and enjoying the flinch the human gave in response. One finger pressed lightly across both of his pink lips, the tip curling just under his nose, to give the impression that Thranduil was thinking hard about some matter of importance, and when the finger was moved so that his hands could cup each other behind the Elf’s back as he turned away from his prisoner, Thranduil added, “more’s the pity for you.”

**XXX**

* * * 

Keep in mind that in the book, it was Bard who wanted to go to war with Thorin over the gold; Thranduil wanted to sit and wait until the Dwarves came begging for food. He was patient (though he did admit to not minding having to kill them all), and Bard was blood thirsty and rash. Harry is… Harry, what can I say, he was good at Care of Magical Creatures?


End file.
